dog days--Seymour and the
judge at the other, while St. George took a position so that he could
catch the first glimpse of the famous poet as he crossed the Square--(it
was still light), the dinner hour having arrived and Todd already
getting nervous.

Once more the talk dwelt on the guest of honor--Mr. Kennedy, who, of all
men of his time, could best appreciate Poe's genius, and who, with Mr.
Latrobe, had kept it alive, telling for the hundredth time the old story
of his first meeting with the poet, turning now and then to Latrobe for
confirmation.

"Oh, some ten or more years ago, wasn't it, Latrobe? We happened to be
on the committee for awarding a prize story, and Poe had sent in his
'Manuscript in a Bottle' among others. It would have broken your hearts,
gentlemen, to have seen him. His black coat was buttoned up close to his
chin--seedy, badly worn--he himself shabby and down at the heels, but
erect and extremely courteous--a most pitiable object. My servant wasn't
going to let him in at first, he looked so much the vagrant."

"And you know, of course, Kennedy, that he had no shirt on under that
coat, don't you?" rejoined Latrobe, rising from his seat as he spoke and
joining St. George at the window.

"Do you think so?" echoed Mr. Kennedy.

"I am positive of it. He came to see me next day and wanted me to let
him know whether he had been successful. He said if the committee only
knew how much the prize would mean to him they would stretch a point in
his favor. I am quite sure I told you about it at the time, St. George,"
and he laid his hand on his host's shoulder.

"There was no need of stretching it, Latrobe," remarked Richard Horn
in his low, incisive voice, his eyes on Kennedy's face, although he
was speaking to the counsellor. "You and Kennedy did the world a great
service at the right moment. Many a man of brains--one with something
new to say--has gone to the wall and left his fellow men that much
poorer because no one helped him into the Pool of Healing at the
right moment." (Dear Richard!--he was already beginning to understand
something of this in his own experience.)

Todd's entrance interrupted the talk for a moment. His face was screwed
up into knots, both eyes lost in the deepest crease. "Fo' Gawd, Marse
George," he whispered in his master's ear--"dem woodcock'll be sp'iled
if dat gemman don't come!"

St. George shook his head: "We will wait a few minutes more, Todd. Tell
Aunt Jemima what I