'THE FINEST STORY IN THE WORLD'
91
slot journals. It was my fate to sit still while Charlie read me poems of many hundred Hines, and bulky fragments of plays that would surely shake the world, My reward was his unreserved confidence, and the self-revelations and troubles of a young man are almost as holy as those of a maiden, Charlie had never fallen in love, but was anxious to do so on the first opportunity; he believed in all things good and all things honourable, but at the same time, was curiously careful to let me see that he knew his way about the world as befitted a bank-clerk on twenty-five shillings a week. He rhymed 'dove' with 'love' and 'moon' with 'June,' and devoutly believed that they had never so been rhymed before. 'The long lame gaps in his plays he filled up with hasty words of apology and description and swept on, seeing all that he intended to do so clearly that he esteemed it already done, and turned to me for applause.
I fancy that his mother did not encourage his aspirations; and I know that his writing-table at home was the edge of his washstand. This he told me almost at the outset of our acquaintance—when he was ravaging my bookshelves, and a little before I was implored to speak the truth as to his chances of 'writing something really great, you know,' Maybe I encouraged him too much, for, one night, he called on me, his eyes flaming with excitement, and said breathlessly:-—
"Do you mind—can you let me stay here and write all this evening? I won't interrupt you, I won't really. There's no place for me to write in at my mother's.'
'What's the trouble?' I said, knowing well what that trouble was.