lton.

"I'll tell her myself, if you like," he said. "I could explain that
they're just the sort of things that a silly ass of a man does, and
that they were not intended to be offensive--even that one about her
lips being like two red strips. Strips of what--carpet?"

"Don't analyse it, Ham, lad, don't analyse it!" begged Bones. "Poems
are like pictures, old friend. You want to stand at a distance to see
them."

"Personally I suffer from astigmatism," said Hamilton, and read the
poems again. He stopped once or twice to ask such pointed questions as
how many "y's" were in "skies," and Bones stood on alternate feet,
protesting incoherently.

"They're not bad, old boy?" he asked anxiously at last. "You wouldn't
say they were bad?"

"Bad," said Hamilton in truth, "is not the word I should apply."

Bones cheered up.

"That's what I think, dear ex-officer," he smirked. "Of course, a
fellow is naturally shy about maiden efforts, and all that sort of
thing, but, hang it all, I've seen worse than that last poem, old
thing."

"So have I," admitted Hamilton, mechanically turning back to the first
poem.

"After all"--Bones was rapidly becoming philosophical--"I'm not so sure
that it isn't the best thing that could happen. Let 'em print 'em!
Hey? What do you say? Put that one about young Miss Marguerite being
like a pearl discovered in a dustbin, dear Ham, put it before a
competent judge, and what would he say?"

"Ten years," snarled Hamilton, "and you'd get off lightly!"

Bones smiled with admirable toleration, and there the matter ended for
the moment.

It was a case of blackmail, as Hamilton had pointed out, but, as the
day proceeded, Bones took a more and more lenient view of his enemy's
fault. By the afternoon he was cheerful, even jocose, and, even in
such moments as he found himself alone with the girl, brought the
conversation round to the subject of poetry as one of the fine arts,
and cunningly excited her curiosity.

"There is so much bad poetry in the world," said the girl on one such
occasion, "that I think there should be a lethal chamber for people who
write it."

"Agreed, dear old tick-tack," assented Bones, with an amused smile.
"What is wanted is--well, I know, dear old miss. It may surprise you
to learn that I once took a correspondence course in poetry writing."

"Nothing surprises me about you, Mr. Tibbetts," she laughed.

He went into her office before leaving that night. Hami