ants an' how Guilford was a famous new
lit'r'y poet, an' they said he was fixin' to lecture in Uticy."

The agent gnawed off the chewed portion of the grass stem, readjusted
it, and fixed his eyes on vacancy.

"Three year this went on. Mr. Guilford was makin' his pile, I guess.
He set up a shop an' hired art bookbinders from York. Then he set up
another shop an' hired some of us 'round here to go an' make them big,
slabby art-chairs. All his shops was called "At the sign of" somethin'
'r other. Bales of vellum arrived for to bind little dinky books; art
rocking-chairs was shipped out o' here by the carload. Meanwhile
Guilford he done poetry on the side an' run a magazine; an' hearin' the
boys was makin' big money up in that crank community, an' that the town
was boomin', I was plum fool enough to drop my job here an' be a
art-worker up to Rose-Cross--that's where the shops was; 'bout three
mile back of his house into the woods."

The agent removed his hands from his overalls and folded his arms
grimly.

"Well?" inquired Briggs, looking up from his perch on the suit-case.

"Well, sir," continued the agent, "the hull thing bust. I guess the
public kinder sickened o' them art-rockers an' dinky books without much
printin' into them. Guilford he stuck to it noble, but the shops closed
one by one. My wages wasn't paid for three months; the boys that
remained got together that autumn an' fixed it up to quit in a bunch.

"The poet was sad; he come out to the shops an' he says, 'Boys,' sez he,
'art is long an' life is dam brief. I ain't got the cash, but,' sez he,
'you can levy onto them art-rockers an' the dinky vellum books in stock,
an',' sez he, 'you can take the hand-presses an' the tools an' bales o'
vellum, which is very precious, an' all the wagons an' hosses, an' go
sell 'em in that proud world that refuses to receive my message. The
woodland fellowship is rent,' sez he, wavin' his plump fingers at us
with the rings sparklin' on 'em.

"Then the boys looked glum, an' they nudged me an' kinder shoved me
front. So, bein' elected, I sez, 'Friend,' sez I, 'art is on the bum. It
ain't your fault; the boys is sad an' sorrerful, but they ain't never
knocked you to nobody, Mr. Guilford. You was good to us; you done your
damdest. You made up pieces for the magazines an' papers an' you
advertised how we was all cranks together here at Rose-Cross, a-lovin'
Nature an' dicky-birds, an' wanderin' about half nood for art's sake.