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
