rs say. Wait till we
hear him go, and then I will lay your manuscript so that he will come to
it among the first after he gets back. You shall see with your own eyes
what treatment it gets. I hope it may please him, but you shall see."

They went back to the publisher's private room and talked awhile.
Then the small boy came up with some vague message about a
gentleman--business--wants to see you, sir, etc, according to the
established programme; all in a vacant, mechanical sort of way, as if he
were a talking-machine just running down.

The publisher told the small boy that he was engaged, and the gentleman
must wait. Very soon they heard The Butcher's heavy footstep as he went
out to get his raw meat and vitriol punch.

"Now, then," said the publisher, and led forth the confiding literary
lamb once more, to enter the fatal door of the critical shambles.

"Hand me your manuscript, if you please, Mr. Hopkins. I will lay it so
that it shall be the third of these that are coming to hand. Our friend
here is a pretty good judge of verse, and knows a merchantable article
about as quick as any man in his line of business. If he forms a
favorable opinion of your poems, we will talk over your propositions."

Gifted was conscious of a very slight tremor as he saw his precious
manuscript deposited on the table under two others, and over a pile of
similar productions. Still he could not help feeling that the critic
would be struck by his title. The quotation from Gray must touch his
feelings. The very first piece in the collection could not fail to
arrest him. He looked a little excited, but he was in good spirits.

"We will be looking 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,--sho