They waited patiently until The Butcher returned, apparently refreshed by his ferocious refection, and sat down at his table.  He looked comforted, and not in ill humor.  The publisher and the poet talked in low tones, as if on business of their own, and watched him as he returned to his labor.

The Butcher took the first manuscript that came to hand, read a stanza here and there, turned over the leaves, turned back and tried again,—­shook his head—­held it for an instant over the basket, as if doubtful,—­and let it softly drop.  He took up the second manuscript, opened it in several places, seemed rather pleased with what he read, and laid it aside for further examination.

He took up the third.  “Blossoms of the Soul,” etc.  He glared at it in a dreadfully ogreish way.  Both the lockers-on held their breath.  Gifted Hopkins felt as if half a glass more of that warm sherry would not hurt him.  There was a sinking at the pit of his stomach, as if he was in a swing, as high as he could go, close up to the swallows’ nests and spiders’ webs.  The Butcher opened the manuscript at random, read ten seconds, and gave a short low grunt.  He opened again, read ten seconds, and gave another grunt, this time a little longer and louder.  He opened once more, read five seconds, and, with something that sounded like the snort of a dangerous animal, cast it impatiently into the basket, and took up the manuscript that came next in order.

Gifted Hopkins stood as if paralyzed for a moment.

“Safe, perfectly safe,” the publisher said to him in a whisper.  “I’ll get it for you presently.  Come in and take another glass of wine,” he said, leading him back to his own office.

“No, I thank you,” he said faintly, “I can bear it.  But this is dreadful, sir.  Is this the way that genius is welcomed to the world of letters?”

The publisher explained to him, in the kindest manner, that there was an enormous over-production of verse, and that it took a great part of one man’s time simply to overhaul the cart-loads of it that were trying to get themselves into print with the imprimatur of his famous house.  “You are young, Mr. Hopkins.  I advise you not to try to force your article of poetry on the market.  The B——­, our friend, there, that is, knows a thing that will sell as soon as he sees it.  You are in independent circumstances, perhaps?  If so, you can print—­at your own expense—­whatever you choose.  May I take the liberty to ask your—­profession?”

Gifted explained that he was “clerk” in a “store,” where they sold dry goods and West India goods, and goods promiscuous.

“Oh, well, then,” the publisher said, “you will understand me.  Do you know a good article of brown sagas when you see it?”

Gifted Hopkins rather thought he did.  He knew at sight whether it was a fair, salable article or not.

“Just so.  Now our friend, there, knows verses that are salable and unsalable as well as you do brown sugar.—­Keep quiet now, and I will go and get your manuscript for you.