about here when our friend comes back," the publisher
said. " He is a very methodical person, and will sit down and go right to
work just as if we were not here. We can watch him, and if he should
express any particular interest in your poems, I will, if you say so,
carry you up to him and reveal the fact that you are the author of the
works that please him."

They waited patiently until The Butcher returned, apparently refreshed by
his ferocious refection, and sat down at his table. He looked comforted,
and not in ill humor. The publisher and the poet talked in low tones, as
if on business of their own, and watched him as he returned to his labor.

The Butcher took the first manuscript that came to hand, read a stanza
here and there, turned over the leaves, turned back and tried
again,--shook his head--held it for an instant over the basket, as if
doubtful,--and let it softly drop. He took up the second manuscript,
opened it in several places, seemed rather pleased with what he read, and
laid it aside for further examination.

He took up the third. "Blossoms of the Soul," etc. He glared at it in a
dreadfully ogreish way. Both the lockers-on held their breath. Gifted
Hopkins felt as if half a glass more of that warm sherry would not hurt
him. There was a sinking at the pit of his stomach, as if he was in a
swing, as high as he could go, close up to the swallows' nests and
spiders' webs. The Butcher opened the manuscript at random, read ten
seconds, and gave a short low grunt. He opened again, read ten seconds,
and gave another grunt, this time a little longer and louder. He opened
once more, read five seconds, and, with something that sounded like the
snort of a dangerous animal, cast it impatiently into the basket, and
took up the manuscript that came next in order.

Gifted Hopkins stood as if paralyzed for a moment.

"Safe, perfectly safe," the publisher said to him in a whisper. "I'll get
it for you presently. Come in and take another glass of wine," he said,
leading him back to his own office.

"No, I thank you," he said faintly, "I can bear it. But this is
dreadful, sir. Is this the way that genius is welcomed to the world of
letters?"

The publisher explained to him, in the kindest manner, that there was an
enormous over-production of verse, and that it took a great part of one
man's time simply to overhaul the cart-loads of it that were trying to
get themselves into print with the imprimatu