This," said Maddox, "is my deal. I shall sail in
and discover Ricky-ticky."
"He's taking precious good care to hide himself. It's a thousand
pities he ever got in with those wretched decadents."
"He isn't in with them."
"Well, he mayn't be exactly immersed, but the tide's caught him."
"The tide? You might be talking of the Atlantic."
"The stream then--' the stream of tendency that makes for '--muck."
"It isn't a stream, it's a filthy duck-pond in somebody's back yard.
There's just enough water for the rest to drown in, but it isn't deep
enough to float a man of Rickman's size. He's only got his feet wet,
and that won't hurt him."
"There are things," said Rankin, "in Saturnalia that lend themselves
to Crawley's treatment."
"And there are things in it that Crawley can't touch. And look at the
later poems--The Four Winds, On Harcombe Hill, and The Song of
Confession. Good God! It makes my blood boil to compare the man who
wrote that with Letheby. Letheby! I could wring Vaughan's neck and
Hanson's too. I should like to take their heads and knock them
together. As for Letheby I'll do for him. I'll smash him in one
column, and I'll give Rickman his send-off in four."
(The Planet in those early days was liberal with its space.)
"After all," he added in a calmer tone, "he was right. We can't help
him, except by taking a back seat and letting him speak for himself. I
shall quote freely. The Song of Confession is the best answer to
Hanson.
Pages:
409
410
411
412
413
414
415
416
417
418
419
420
421
422
423
424
425
426
427
428
429
430
431
432
433