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Followed by an injunction to be back for supper "on the chap o' nine," they strolled out into the evening. Two hours of some sort of daylight remained, and the travellers had that impulse to activity which comes to all men who, after a day of exercise and emptiness, are stayed with a satisfying tea. "You should be happy, Dogson," said the Poet.
"It's too risky to move it into the House now. We'll need the thickest darkness for that, after the moon is down. Quick, for the beastly thing will be rising soon, and before that we must all be indoors." Then he turned to Dickson and gripped his hand. "You're a high class of sportsman, Dogson. And I think you're just in time." "Are they due to-night?"
Dogson, I warn you, I'm going to have the devil of a tea." And he declaimed: "Thou shalt hear a song After a while which Gods may listen to; But place the flask upon the board and wait Until the stranger hath allayed his thirst, For poets, grasshoppers, and nightingales Sing cheerily but when the throat is moist." Dickson, too, longed with sensual gusto for tea.
You want a wealth of jolly words and real things ruled out as unfit for poetry. I say there's nothing unfit for poetry. Nothing, Dogson! Poetry's everywhere, and the real thing is commoner among drabs and pot-houses and rubbish-heaps than in your Sunday parlours.
"Heritage," he whispered as loud as he dared, bet there was no answer. Then suddenly a moving body collided with him. He jumped a step back and then stood at attention. "Is that you, Dobson?" a voice asked. Now behold the occasional advantage of a nick-name. Dickson thought he was being addressed as "Dogson" after the Poet's fashion.
She will be a glorious memory, and Lord! what poetry I shall write! I give her up joyfully, for she has found her mate. 'Let us not to the marriage of true minds admit impediments! The thing's too perfect to grieve about.... Look! There is romance incarnate." He points to the figures now silhouetted against the further sea. "How does it go, Dogson?" he cries.
So I called it 'Whorls, to express my view of the exquisite involution of all things. Poetry is the fourth dimension of the soul.... Well, let's hear about your taste in prose." Mr. McCunn was much bewildered, and a little inclined to be cross. He disliked being called Dogson, which seemed to him an abuse of his etymological confidences. But his habit of politeness held.
"That fellow's a swine," said Mr. Heritage sourly. "I wouldn't trust my neck in his pot-house. Now, Dogson, I'm hanged if I'm going to leave this place. We'll find a corner in the village somehow. Besides, I'm determined on tea." The little street slept in the clear pure light of an early April evening. Blue shadows lay on the white road, and a delicate aroma of cooking tantalized hungry nostrils.
Heritage brought his hands together with a smack. "That's an idea. Will you trust us to take these things and deposit them safely?" For a little she was silent and her eyes were fixed on each of the trio in turn. "I will trust you," she said at last. "I think you will not betray me." "By God, we won't!" said the Poet fervently. "Dogson, it's up to you.
Down in that green place the crystal water gushed and frolicked as if determined on one hour of rapturous life before joining the sedater sea. Heritage flung himself on the turf. "This is a good place! Ye gods, what a good place! Dogson, aren't you glad you came? I think everything's bewitched to-night. That village is bewitched, and that old woman's tea. Good white magic!
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