Once more the talk dwelt on the guest of honor—­Mr. Kennedy, who, of all men of his time, could best appreciate Poe’s genius, and who, with Mr. Latrobe, had kept it alive, telling for the hundredth time the old story of his first meeting with the poet, turning now and then to Latrobe for confirmation.

“Oh, some ten or more years ago, wasn’t it, Latrobe?  We happened to be on the committee for awarding a prize story, and Poe had sent in his ‘Manuscript in a Bottle’ among others.  It would have broken your hearts, gentlemen, to have seen him.  His black coat was buttoned up close to his chin—­seedy, badly worn—­he himself shabby and down at the heels, but erect and extremely courteous—­a most pitiable object.  My servant wasn’t going to let him in at first, he looked so much the vagrant.”

“And you know, of course, Kennedy, that he had no shirt on under that coat, don’t you?” rejoined Latrobe, rising from his seat as he spoke and joining St. George at the window.

“Do you think so?” echoed Mr. Kennedy.

“I am positive of it.  He came to see me next day and wanted me to let him know whether he had been successful.  He said if the committee only knew how much the prize would mean to him they would stretch a point in his favor.  I am quite sure I told you about it at the time, St. George,” and he laid his hand on his host’s shoulder.

“There was no need of stretching it, Latrobe,” remarked Richard Horn in his low, incisive voice, his eyes on Kennedy’s face, although he was speaking to the counsellor.  “You and Kennedy did the world a great service at the right moment.  Many a man of brains—­one with something new to say—­has gone to the wall and left his fellow men that much poorer because no one helped him into the Pool of Healing at the right moment.” (Dear Richard!—­he was already beginning to understand something of this in his own experience.)

Todd’s entrance interrupted the talk for a moment.  His face was screwed up into knots, both eyes lost in the deepest crease.  “Fo’ Gawd, Marse George,” he whispered in his master’s ear—­“dem woodcock’ll be sp’iled if dat gemman don’t come!”

St. George shook his head:  “We will wait a few minutes more, Todd.  Tell Aunt Jemima what I say.”

Clayton, who despite the thinness of his seersucker coat, had kept his palm-leaf fan busy since he had taken his seat, and who had waited until his host’s ear was again free, now broke in cheerily: 

“Same old story of course, St. George.  Another genius gone astray.  Bad business, this bee of literature, once it gets to buzzing.”  Then with a quizzical glance at the author:  “Kennedy is a lamentable example of what it has done for him.  He started out as a soldier, dropped into law, and now is trying to break into Congress again—­and all the time writes—­ writes—­writes.  It has spoiled everything he has tried to do in life—­and it will spoil everything he touches from this on—­and now comes along this man Poe, who—­”