“Hanson,” said Maddox, “is too big a man to mind it if they did.”

“Anyhow, he hasn’t helped him.”

“No,” said Rankin; “but that’s another story.  Hanson was dining with Jewdwine, and Jewdwine was cracking up Rickman most extravagantly (for him).  That was quite enough to make Hanson jump on him.  He was bound to do it by way of asserting his independence.”

“I wonder if Jewdwine calculated that that would be the natural effect.”

“Oh, come, he’s a subtle beast; but I don’t suppose he’s as subtle as all that.”

“You’ll find that all the reviews will follow Hanson like a flock of sheep.”

“How about the Literary Observer?  Mackinnon was friendly.”

Maddox smiled.  “He was.  But our Ricky-ticky alienated Mackinnon on the very eve of publication.”

“How?”

“By some awful jest.  Something about Mackinnon’s head and the dome of the British Museum.”

“Well, if it was a joke, Mackinnon wouldn’t see it.”

“No, but he’d feel it, which would be a great deal worse.  Our Ricky-ticky is devoid of common prudence.”

“Our Ricky-ticky is a d——­d fool,” said Stables.

“Well,” said Rankin, “I suppose he knows what he’s about.  He’s got Jewdwine at his back.”

Maddox shrugged his enormous shoulders.  “Jewdwine?  Jewdwine won’t slate his own man, but he can’t very well turn round and boom the set he always goes for.  This,” said Maddox, “is my deal.  I shall sail in and discover Ricky-ticky.”

“He’s taking precious good care to hide himself.  It’s a thousand pities he ever got in with those wretched decadents.”

“He isn’t in with them.”

“Well, he mayn’t be exactly immersed, but the tide’s caught him.”

“The tide?  You might be talking of the Atlantic.”

“The stream then—­’ the stream of tendency that makes for ’—­muck.”

“It isn’t a stream, it’s a filthy duck-pond in somebody’s back yard.  There’s just enough water for the rest to drown in, but it isn’t deep enough to float a man of Rickman’s size.  He’s only got his feet wet, and that won’t hurt him.”

“There are things,” said Rankin, “in Saturnalia that lend themselves to Crawley’s treatment.”

“And there are things in it that Crawley can’t touch.  And look at the later poems—­The Four Winds, On Harcombe Hill, and The Song of Confession.  Good God!  It makes my blood boil to compare the man who wrote that with Letheby.  Letheby!  I could wring Vaughan’s neck and Hanson’s too.  I should like to take their heads and knock them together.  As for Letheby I’ll do for him.  I’ll smash him in one column, and I’ll give Rickman his send-off in four.”

(The Planet in those early days was liberal with its space.)

“After all,” he added in a calmer tone, “he was right.  We can’t help him, except by taking a back seat and letting him speak for himself.  I shall quote freely.  The Song of Confession is the best answer to Hanson.”