Don't you remember that little sonnet
you once composed, entitled 'Who Put Ink in Willie's Shoes?' It was
great, grand, sublime!"
"I never wrote such a sonnet!" cried Songbird. "Ink in shoes, indeed!
Tom, you don't know real poetry when you see it!"
"That's a fact, I don't. But, say, what's on the carpet, as the iceman
said to the thrush?"
"Nothing. I thought I'd write a few verses, that's all. Thought you
were going to town with Sam and Dick?"
"Can't." And once again Tom had to tell his story. He had not yet
finished when Songbird gave an exclamation.
"It fits in!" he cried.
"Fits in? What?" asked Tom.
"What I heard a while ago."
"What did you hear?"
"Heard Flockley, Koswell and Larkspur talking together. Koswell said
he had fixed you, and that you were having a bad half hour with the
president."
"Where was this?"
"In the library. I was in an alcove, and they didn't see me. I was
busy reading some poetry by Longfellow--fine thing--went like this--"
"Never mind. Chop out the poetry now, Songbird. What more did they
say?"
"Nothing. They walked away, and I--er--I got so interested in making
up verses I forgot all about it until now."
"I wish you had heard more. Do you know where they went to?"
"No, but I can look around if you want me to."
"I wish very much that you would. I can't leave, or I'd go myself."
A few more words followed, and then Songbird went off to hunt up the
Flockley crowd.
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