“Trepan him, trepan him.”

Stables took out his penknife and indicated by dumb show a surgical operation on Mackinnon’s dome-like head.

“I gathered it,” continued Maddox suavely, “from his manner.  I culled his young thought like a flower.”

“Perhaps,” Rankin suggested, “he was afraid of compromising Poppy.”

“He might have left that subtle consideration to Pilkington.”

“That was it.  He scented Dicky’s hand in it, and wasn’t particularly anxious to oblige him.  The point of the joke is that he happens to owe Dicky a great deal more than he can conveniently pay.  That’ll give you some faint notion of the magnificence of his cheek.”

Stables was impressed.  He wondered what sort of young man it could be who had the moral courage to oppose Dicky Pilkington at such a moment.  He could not have done it himself.  Dicky Pilkington was the great and mysterious power at the back of The Planet.

“But this isn’t the end of it.  I told him, for his future guidance and encouragement, that he had mistaken cause and effect—­that little variety artistes, like other people, are not popular because they are written about, but written about because they are popular—­that The Planet is the organ of public opinion, not of private opinions; in short, that he wasn’t in it, at all.  I thought I’d sat on him till he was about flat—­and the very next week he comes bounding in with his Saturnalia, as he calls them.”

“That was your moment.  Why didn’t you rise up in your majesty and r-r-reject them?”

“Couldn’t.  They were too damned good.”  Maddox smiled at the reminiscence.  “I wasn’t going to let him sign them, but he took the wind out of my sails by stating beforehand that he didn’t want to—­that if I didn’t mind—­mind, if you please—­he’d very much rather not.  It’s only the last week (when the Saturnalia were getting better and better) that he graciously permitted his initials to appear.  S.K.R.—­Savage Keith Rickman.”

“Good Lord!” said Rankin; “what must he be like?”

“Ask Jewdwine,” said Stables; “he’s Jewdwine’s man.”

“Excuse me,” said Maddox, “he is mine.  I say, Jewdwine, what is he like?”

Jewdwine did not respond very eagerly; he wanted to get on with his letter.  But the club had another unwritten law as to writing.  If a majority of members desired to write, silence was vigorously insisted on.  Any number short of a majority wrote as best they could.  For this unfortunate scribe there could be no concession; he was in a minority of one.

“If”—­said he, “you can imagine the soul of a young Sophocles, battling with that of a—­of a junior journalist in the body of a dissipated little Cockney—­”

“Can’t,” said Stables.  “Haven’t got enough imagination.”

“The child of ’Ellas and of Ollywell Street’—­innocent of—­er—­the rough breathing,” suggested Maddox.