“Of course. Weren’t you on your oath? It was very zealous of you to get up so early to tell me. In which hand did you have this cramp?”
“Why, in the right, of course.”
“And you couldn’t write with your left?”
“I don’t think I could even hold a pen.”
“Or any other instrument, mayhap. What had you been doing to bring it on?”
“Writing too much. That is the only possible cause.”
“Oh, I don’t know. Writing what?”
Denzil hesitated. “An epic poem.”
“No wonder you’re in debt. Will a sovereign get you out of it?”
“No; it wouldn’t be the least use to me.”
“Here it is, then.”
Denzil took the coin and his hat.
“Aren’t you going to earn it, you beggar? Sit down and write something for me.”
Denzil got pen and paper, and took his place.
“What do you want me to write?”
“The Epic Poem.”
Denzil started and flushed. But he set to work. Grodman leaned back in his armchair and laughed, studying the poet’s grave face.
Denzil wrote three lines and paused.
“Can’t remember any more? Well, read me the start.”
Denzil read:
“Of man’s first disobedience and the fruit
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste
Brought death into the world—”
“Hold on!” cried Grodman; “what morbid subjects you choose, to be sure.”
“Morbid! Why, Milton chose the same subject!”
“Blow Milton. Take yourself off—you and your Epics.”
Denzil went. The pock-marked person opened the street door for him.
“When am I to have that new dress, dear?” she whispered coquettishly.
“I have no money, Jane,” he said shortly.
“You have a sovereign.”
Denzil gave her the sovereign, and slammed the door viciously. Grodman overheard their whispers, and laughed silently. His hearing was acute. Jane had first introduced Denzil to his acquaintance about two years ago, when he spoke of getting an amanuensis, and the poet had been doing odd jobs for him ever since. Grodman argued that Jane had her reasons. Without knowing them he got a hold over both. There was no one, he felt, he could not get a hold over. All men—and women—have something to conceal, and you have only to pretend to know what it is. Thus Grodman, who was nothing if not scientific.
Denzil Cantercot shambled home thoughtfully, and abstractedly took his place at the Crowl dinner-table.
CHAPTER VI
Mrs. Crowl surveyed Denzil Cantercot so stonily and cut him his beef so savagely that he said grace when the dinner was over. Peter fed his metaphysical genius on tomatoes. He was tolerant enough to allow his family to follow their Fads; but no savory smells ever tempted him to be false to his vegetable loves. Besides, meat might have reminded him too much of his work. There is nothing like leather, but Bow beefsteaks occasionally come very near it.
After dinner Denzil usually indulged in poetic reverie. But today he did not take his nap. He went out at once to “raise the wind.” But there was a dead calm everywhere. In vain he asked for an advance at the office of the “Mile End Mirror,” to which he contributed scathing leaderettes about vestrymen. In vain he trudged to the city and offered to write the “Ham and Eggs Gazette” an essay on the modern methods of bacon-curing. Denzil knew a great deal about the breeding and slaughtering of pigs, smoke-lofts and drying processes, having for years dictated the policy of the “New Pork Herald” in these momentous matters. Denzil also knew a great deal about many other esoteric matters, including weaving machines, the manufacture of cabbage leaves and snuff, and the inner economy of drain-pipes. He had written for the trade papers since boyhood. But there is great competition on these papers. So many men of literary gifts know all about the intricate technicalities of manufactures and markets, and are eager to set the trade right. Grodman perhaps hardly allowed sufficiently for the step backward that Denzil made when he devoted his whole time for months to Criminals I Have Caught. It was as damaging as a debauch. For when your rivals are pushing forward, to stand still is to go back.
In despair Denzil shambled toilsomely to Bethnal Green. He paused before the window of a little tobacconist’s shop, wherein was displayed a placard announcing:
“PLOTS FOR SALE.”
The announcement went on to state that a large stock of plots was to be obtained on the premises—embracing sensational plots, humorous plots, love plots, religious plots, and poetic plots; also complete manuscripts, original novels, poems and tales. Apply within.
It was a very dirty-looking shop, with begrimed bricks and blackened woodwork. The window contained some musty old books, an assortment of pipes and tobacco, and a large number of the vilest daubs unhung, painted in oil on Academy boards, and unframed. These were intended for landscapes, as you could tell from the titles. The most expensive was “Chingford Church,” and it was marked 1s. 9d. The others ran from 6d. to 1s. 3d., and were mostly representations of Scotch scenery—a loch with mountains in the background, with solid reflections in the water and a tree in the foreground. Sometimes the tree would be in the background. Then the loch would be in the foreground. Sky and water were intensely blue in all. The name of the collection was “Original oil paintings done by hand.” Dust lay thick upon everything, as if carefully shoveled on; and the proprietor looked as if he slept in his shop window at night without taking his clothes off. He was a gaunt man with a red nose, long but scanty black locks covered by a smoking cap, and a luxuriant black mustache. He smoked a long clay pipe, and had the air of a broken-down operatic villain.
“Ah, good afternoon, Mr. Cantercot,” he said, rubbing his hands, half from cold, half from usage; “what have you brought me?”
“Nothing,” said Denzil, “but if you will lend me a sovereign I’ll do you a stunner.”
The operatic villain shook his locks, his eyes full of pawky cunning. “If you did it after that it would be a stunner.”
What the operatic villain did with these plots, and who bought them, Cantercot never knew nor cared to know. Brains are cheap today, and Denzil was glad enough to find a customer.
“Surely you’ve known me long enough to trust me,” he cried.
“Trust is dead,” said the operatic villain, puffing away.
“So is Queen Anne,” cried the irritated poet. His eyes took a dangerous hunted look. Money he must have. But the operatic villain was inflexible. No plot, no supper.
Poor Denzil went out flaming. He knew not where to turn. Temporarily he turned on his heel again and stared despairingly at the shop window. Again he read the legend:
“PLOTS FOR SALE.”
He stared so long at this that it lost its meaning. When the sense of the words suddenly flashed upon him again, they bore a new significance. He went in meekly, and borrowed fourpence of the operatic villain. Then he took the ’bus for Scotland Yard. There was a not ill-looking servant girl in the ’bus. The rhythm of the vehicle shaped itself into rhymes in his brain. He forgot all about his situation and his object. He had never really written an epic—except “Paradise Lost”—but he composed lyrics about wine and women and often wept to think how miserable he was. But nobody ever bought anything of him, except articles on bacon-curing or attacks on vestrymen. He was a strange, wild