And not only did their talk cover the whole range of Harry’s experiences from the time he left the ship for his sojourn in the hill country and the mountains beyond, and all of St. George’s haps and mishaps, with every single transaction of Gadgem and Pawson—­loving cup, dogs and all—­but when their own personal news was exhausted they both fell back on their friends, such as Richard Horn and old Judge Pancoast; when he had seen Mr. Kennedy and Mr. Latrobe—­yes, and what of Mr. Poe—­had he written any more?—­and were his habits any better?—­etc., etc.

“I have seen Mr. Poe several times since that unfortunate dinner, Harry; the last time when he was good enough to call upon me on his way to Richmond.  He was then particularly himself.  You would not have known him—­grave, dignified, perfectly dressed—­charming, delightful.  He came in quite late—­indeed I was going to bed when I heard his knock and, Todd being out, I opened the door myself.  There was some of that Black Warrior left, and I brought out the decanter, but he shook his head courteously and continued his talk.  He asked after you.  Wonderful man, Harry—­a man you never forget once you know him.”

St. George dragged the pine table nearer his chair and moistened his lips with the glass of milk which Jemima had set beside him.  Then he went on: 

“You remember Judge Giles, do you not?  Lives here on St. Paul Street—­yes—­of course you do—­for he is a great friend of your father’s and you must have met him repeatedly at Moorlands.  Well, one day at the club he told me the most extraordinary story about Mr. Poe—­this was some time after you’d gone.  It seems that the judge was at work in his study late one snowy night when his doorbell sounded.  Outside stood a man with his coat buttoned close about his throat—­evidently a gentleman—­who asked him politely for a sheet of paper and a pen.  You know the judge, and how kind and considerate he is.  Well, of course he asked him in, drew out a chair at his desk and stepped into the next room to leave him undisturbed.  After a time, not hearing him move, he looked in and to his surprise the stranger had disappeared.  On the desk lay a sheet of paper on which was written three verses of a poem.  It was his ‘Bells.’  The judge has had them framed, so I hear.  There was enough snow on the ground to bring out the cutters, and Poe had the rhythm of the bells ringing in his head and being afraid he would forget it he pulled the judge’s doorbell.  I wish he’d rung mine.  I must get the poem for you, Harry—­it’s as famous now as ‘The Raven.’  Richard, I hear, reads it so that you can distinguish the sound of each bell.”

“Well, he taught me a lesson,” said Harry, tucking the blanket close around his uncle’s knees—­“one I have never forgotten, and never will.  He sent me to bed a wreck, I remember, but I got up the next morning with a new mast in me and all my pumps working.”

“You mean—­” and St. George smiled meaningly and tossed his hand up as if emptying a glass.