his hat and commenced to brush it off with care.
"You must be getting blind," growled John Powell, otherwise known as Songbird. "Confound the luck—you spoilt one of my best rhymes," he added, as he stooped to pick up his writing pad.
"Sorry, upon my honor I am," returned William Philander. "Can I help you out on it?"
"I don't think you can. Did you ever try to write poetry—real poetry, I mean?"
"No, my dear boy, no. I'm afraid I would not be equal to it."
"Then I don't see how you are going to help me," murmured Songbird, and he passed on a few steps, coming to a halt presently to jot down some words on his pad.
"Hello, Songbird!" called out Tom. "How is the Muse to-day, red-hot?"
For a moment John Powell did not answer, but kept on writing. Then his face broke out into a sudden smile.
"There, that's it!" he cried. "I've got it at last! I knew I'd get it if I kept at it long enough."
"Knew you'd get what, the measles?" asked the fun-loving Tom.
"'Measles' nothing!" snorted the would-be
