Chapter 12
297 Words
GOOD-MORNING, Homer, my boy," said the i***t, genially, as the Poet entered the breakfast-room. "All hail to thee. Thou art the bright particular bird of plumage I most hoped to see this rare and beauteous summer morning. No sweet-singing robin-redbreast or soft-honking canvasback for yours truly this A.M., when a living, breathing, palpitating son of the Muses lurks near at hand. I fain would make thee a proposition, Shakespeare dear!"
"Back pedal there! Avaunt with your flowery speech, oh i***t!" cried the Doctor. "Else will I call an ambulance."
"No ambulance for mine," chortled the i***t.
"Nay, Sweet Gas-bags," quoth the Doctor. "But for once I fear me we may be scorched by this Pel e of words that thou spoutest forth."
"What's the proposition, Mr. i***t?" asked the Poet. "I'm always open to anything of the kind, as the Subway said when an automobile fell into it.'"
"I thirst for laurels," said the i***t, "and I propose that you and I collaborate on a book of poems for early publication. With your name on the title-page and my poems in the book I think we can make a go of it."
"What's the lay?" asked the Poet, amused, but wary. "Sonnets, or French forms, or just plain snatches of song?"
"Any old thing as long as it runs smoothly," replied the i***t. "Only the poems must fit the title of the book, which is to be Now."
"Now?" said the Poet.
"Now!" repeated the i***t. "I find in reading over the verse of the day that the 'Now' poem always finds a ready market. Therefore, there must be money in it, and where the money goes there the laurels are. You know what Browning Robinson, the Laureate of Wall Street, wrote in his 'Message to Posterity':
- Writer
