“I mixed in with ’em and took a friendly drink myself, with the aim of smoothing things down, but I saw it would be delicate work.  About all I could do was keep ’em reminded there was ladies present and it wasn’t a barroom where anything could be rightly started.  Doc Martingale’s feelings was running high, too, account, I suppose, of certain full-hearted things his wife had blurted out to him about the hypnotic eyes of this here Nature lover.  He was quiet enough, but vicious, acting like he’d love to do some dental work on the poet that might or might not be painless for all he cared a hoot.  He was taking his own drinks all alone, like clockwork—­moody but systematic.

“Then we hear chairs pushed round in the other room and the chink of silver to be offered to the poet, and Henrietta come out to give word for the refreshments to be served.  She found Alonzo in the hallway telling Beryl Mae how flowerlike her beauty was and giving her the elk’s tooth charm off his watch chain.  Beryl Mae was giggling heartily until she caught Henrietta’s eye—­like a cobra’s.

“The refreshments was handed round peaceful enough, with the ladies pressing sardine sandwiches and chocolate cake and cups of coffee on to Wilfred and asking him interesting questions about his adventurous life in the open.  And the plans was all made for his class in poetry to be held at Henrietta’s house, where the lady subscribers for a few weeks could come into contact with the higher realities of life, at eight dollars for the course, and Wilfred was beginning to cheer up again, though still subject to dismay when one of the husbands would glare in at him from the hall, and especially when Ben Sutton would look in with his bulging and expressive eyes and kind of bark at him.

“Then Ben Sutton come and stood in the doorway till he caught Wilfred’s eye and beckoned to him.  Wilfred pretended not to notice the first time, but Ben beckoned a little harder, so Wilfred excused himself to the six or eight ladies and went out.  It seemed to me he first looked quick round him to make sure there wasn’t any other way out.  I was standing in the hall when Ben led him tenderly into the grillroom with two fingers.

“‘Here is our well-known poet and bon vivant,’ says Ben to Alonzo, who had followed ’em in.  So Alonzo bristles up to Wilfred and glares at him and says:  ’All joking aside, is that one of my new shirts you’re wearing or is it not?’

“Wilfred gasped a couple times and says:  ’Why, as to that, you see, the madam insisted—­’

“Alonzo shut him off.  ’How dare you drag a lady’s name into a barroom brawl?’ says he.

“‘Don’t shoot in here,’ says Ben.  ‘You’d scare the ladies.’

“Wilfred went pasty, indeed, thinking his host was going to gun him.

“‘Oh, very well, I won’t then,’ says Alonzo.  ’I guess I can be a gentleman when necessary.  But all joking aside, I want to ask him this:  Does he consider poetry to be an accomplishment or a vice?’