'Thank you,' said the Editor, and he got up and put his hand in his
pocket. 'That's well worth five shillings, and there they are. Would
you like to see round the printing offices before you go home?'

I pocketed my five bob, and thanked him, and I said we should like it
very much. He called another gentleman and said something we couldn't
hear. Then he said good-bye again; and all this time Noel hadn't said a
word. But now he said, 'I've made a poem about you. It is called
"Lines to a Noble Editor." Shall I write it down?'

The Editor gave him the blue pencil, and he sat down at the Editor's
table and wrote. It was this, he told me afterwards as well as he could
remember--

May Life's choicest blessings be your lot
I think you ought to be very blest
For you are going to print my poems--
And you may have this one as well as the rest.

'Thank you,' said the Editor. 'I don't think I ever had a poem
addressed to me before. I shall treasure it, I assure you.'

Then the other gentleman said something about Maecenas, and we went off
to see the printing office with at least one pound seven in our pockets.

It _was_ good hunting, and no mistake!

But he never put Noel's poetry in the Daily Recorder. It was quite a
long time afterwards we saw a sort of story thing in a magazine, on the