e poet watched the deal with boiled-fishy
eyes. His thoughts were far away. His lips moved audibly. "Myrtle,
and kirtle, and hurtle," he muttered. "They'll do for three. Then
there's turtle, meaning dove; and that finishes the possible. Laurel
and coral make a very bad rhyme. Try myrtle; don't you think so?"

"Do you stake?" Charles asked, severely, interrupting his reverie.

The poet started. "No, pass," he replied, looking down at his card,
and subsided into muttering. We caught a tremor of his lips again,
and heard something like this: "Not less but more republican than
thou, Half-hearted watcher by the Western sea, After long years I
come to visit thee, And test thy fealty to that maiden vow, That
bound thee in thy budding prime For Freedom's bride--"

"Stake?" Charles interrupted, inquiringly, again.

"Yes, five thousand," the poet answered dreamily, pushing forward
his pile of notes, and never ceasing from his murmur: "For Freedom's
bride to all succeeding time. Succeeding; succeeding; weak word,
succeeding. Couldn't go five dollars on it."

Charles turned his card once more. The poet had won again. Charles
passed over his notes. The poet raked them in with a far-away air,
as one who looks at infinity, and asked if he could borrow a pencil
and paper. He had a few priceless lines to set down which might
otherwise escape him.

"This is play," Charles said pointedly. "_Will_ you kindly attend to
one thing or the other?"

The poet glanced at him with a compassionate smile. "I told you I
had inspirations," he said. "They always come together. I can't win
your money as fast as I would like, unless at the same time I am
making verses. Whenever I hit upon a good epithet, I back my luck,
don't you see? I won a thousand on _half-hearted_ and a thousand on
_budding_; if I were to back _succeeding_, I should lose, to a
certainty. You understand my system?"

"I call it pure rubbish," Charles answered. "However, continue.
Systems were made for fools--and to suit wise men. Sooner or later
you _must_ lose at such a stupid fancy."

The poet continued. "For Freedom's bride to all _ensuing_ time."

"Stake!" Charles cried sharply. We each of us staked.

"_Ensuing_," the poet murmured. "To all _ensuing_ time. First-rate
epithet that. I go ten thousand, Sir Charles, on _ensuing_."

We all turned up. Some of us lost, some won; but the poet had
secured his two thousand sterling.

"I haven't that amount about me," Charles