say."

Clayton, who despite the thinness of his seersucker coat, had kept his
palm-leaf fan busy since he had taken his seat, and who had waited until
his host's ear was again free, now broke in cheerily:

"Same old story of course, St. George. Another genius gone astray. Bad
business, this bee of literature, once it gets to buzzing." Then with a
quizzical glance at the author: "Kennedy is a lamentable example of what
it has done for him. He started out as a soldier, dropped into law,
and now is trying to break into Congress again--and all the time
writes--writes--writes. It has spoiled everything he has tried to do
in life--and it will spoil everything he touches from this on--and now
comes along this man Poe, who--"

"--No, he doesn't come along," chimed in Pancoast, who so far had kept
silence, his palm-leaf fan having done all the talking. "I wish he
would."

"You are right, judge," chuckled Clayton, "and that is just my point.
Here I say, comes along this man Poe and spoils my dinner. Something,
I tell you, has got to be done or I shall collapse. By the way,
Kennedy--didn't you send Poe a suit of clothes once in which to come to
your house?"

The distinguished statesman, who had been smiling at the major's
good-natured badinage, made no reply: that was a matter between the poet
and himself.

"And didn't he keep everybody waiting?" persisted Clayton, "until your
man found him and brought him back in your own outfit--only the shirt
was four sizes too big for his bean-pole of a body. Am I right?" he
laughed.

"He has often dined with me, Clayton," replied Kennedy in his most
courteous and kindly tone, ignoring the question as well as all allusion
to his charity--"and never in all my experience have I ever met a more
dazzling conversationalist. Start him on one of his weird tales and let
him see that you are interested and in sympathy with him, and you will
never forget it. He gave us parts of an unfinished story one night at my
house, so tremendous in its power that every one was frozen stiff in his
seat."

Again Clayton cut in, this time to St. George. He was getting horribly
hungry, as were the others. It was now twenty minutes past the dinner
hour and there were still no signs of Poe, nor had any word come from
him. "For mercy's sake, St. George, try the suit-of-clothes method--any
suit of clothes--here--he can have mine! I'll be twice as comfortable
without them."

"He couldn't get into them," return