for the present soul of Charlie Mears, to whom life was as new as it was
to Adam, and interest in his readings; and stretched my patience to
breaking point by reciting poetry--not his own now, but that of others. I
wished every English poet blotted out of the memory of mankind. I
blasphemed the mightiest names of song because they had drawn Charlie from
the path of direct narrative, and would, later, spur him to imitate them;
but I choked down my impatience until the first flood of enthusiasm should
have spent itself and the boy returned to his dreams.

"What's the use of my telling you what _I_ think, when these chaps wrote
things for the angels to read?" he growled, one evening. "Why don't you
write something like theirs?"

"I don't think you're treating me quite fairly," I said, speaking under
strong restraint.

"I've given you the story," he said, shortly, replunging into "Lara."

"But I want the details."

"The things I make up about that damned ship that you call a galley?
They're quite easy. You can just make 'em up yourself. Turn up the gas a
little, I want to go on reading."

I could have broken the gas globe over his head for his amazing stupidity.
I could indeed make up things for myself did I only know what Charlie did
not know that he knew. But since the doors were shut behind me I could
only wait his youthful pleasure and strive to keep him in good temper. One
minute's want of guard might spoil a priceless revelation; now and again
he would toss his books aside--he kept them in my rooms, for his mother