Chapter 10

"Good-morning, gentlemen," said the Idiot, as he seated himself at the
breakfast-table and glanced over his mail.

"Good-morning yourself," returned the Poet. "You have an unusually large
number of letters this morning. All checks, I hope?"

"Yes," replied the Idiot. "All checks of one kind or another. Mostly
checks on ambition--otherwise, rejections from my friends the editors."

"You don't mean to say that you write for the papers?" put in the
School-master, with an incredulous smile.

"I try to," returned the Idiot, meekly. "If the papers don't take 'em, I
find them useful in curing my genial friend who imbibes of insomnia."

"What do you write--advertisements?" queried the Bibliomaniac.

"No. Advertisement writing is an art to which I dare not aspire. It's
too great a tax on the brain," replied the Idiot.

"Tax on what?" asked the Doctor. He was going to squelch the Idiot.

"The brain," returned the latter, not ready to be squelched. "It's a
little thing people use to think with, Doctor. I'd advise you to get
one." Then he added, "I write poems and foreign letters mostly."

"I did not know that you had ever been abroad," said the clergyman.

[Illustration: "'YOU DON'T MEAN TO SAY THAT YOU WRITE FOR THE
PAPERS?'"]

"I never have," returned the Idiot.

"Then how, may I ask," said Mr. Whitechoker, severely, "how can you
write foreign letters?"

"With my stub pen, of course," replied the Idiot. "How did you
suppose--with an oyster-knife?"

The clergyman sighed.

"I should like to hear some of your poems," said the Poet.

"Very well," returned the Idiot. "Here's one that has just returned from
the _Bengal Monthly_. It's about a writer who died some years ago.
Shakespeare's his name. You've heard of Shakespeare, haven't you, Mr.
Pedagog?" he added.

Then, as there was no answer, he read the verse, which was as follows:

SETTLED.

Yes! Shakespeare wrote the plays--'tis clear to me.
Lord Bacon's claim's condemned before the bar.
He'd not have penned, "what fools these mortals be!"
But--more correct--"what fools these mortals are!"

"That's not bad," said the Poet.

[Illustration: "'WE WOOED THE SELF-SAME MAID'"]

"Thanks," returned the Idiot. "I wish you were an editor. I wrote that
last spring, and it has been coming back to me at the rate of once a
week ever since."

"It is too short," said the