a side-line. For a living I clean shoes at the 'Elight' Barbershop--I,
who have lingered on the sunny slopes of Parnassus, and quenched my
soul-thirst at the Heliconian spring--gents' tans a specialty."

"Did you ever publish a book?" I asked.

"Sure! Did you never read my 'Rhymes of a Rustler'? One reviewer would
say I was the clear dope, the genuine eighteen-carat, jewelled-movement
article; the next would aver I was the rankest dub that ever came down
the pike. They said I'd imitated people, people I'd never read, people
I'd never heard of, people I never dreamt existed. I was accused of
imitating over twenty different writers. Then the pedants got after me,
said I didn't conform to academic formulas, advised me to steep myself
in tradition. They talked about form, about classic style and so on. As
if it matters so long as you get down the thing itself so that folks can
see it, and feel it go right home to their hearts. I can write in all
the artificial verse forms, but they're mouldy with age, back numbers.
Forget them. Quit studying that old Greek dope: study life, modern life,
palpitating with colour, crying for expression. Life! Life! The sunshine
of it was in my heart, and I just naturally tried to be its singer."

"I say," said the Prodigal from the bunk where he was lounging, in a
haze of cigarette smoke, "read us that thing you did the other day, 'The
Last Supper.'"

The Pote's eyes twinkled with pleasure.

"All right," he said. Then, in a clear voice, he repeated the following
lines:

"THE LAST SUPPER.

Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips,
And the mouth so mocking gay;
A wanton you to the finger tips,
That break men's hearts in play;
A thing of dust I have striven for,
Honour and Manhood given for,
Headlong for ruin driven for--
And this is the last, you say:

Drinking your wine with dainty sips,
Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips.

Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips,
Long have you held your sway;
I have laughed at your merry quips,
Now is my time to pay.
What we sow we must reap again;
When we laugh we must weep again;
So to-night we will sleep again,
Nor wake till the Judgment Day.

'Tis a prison wine that your palate sips,
Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips.

Marie Vaux of the Painted Lips,
Down on your knees and pray;
Pray your last ere the moment slips,
Pray ere the dark and the terror