Ralph walked home with Osborne, in order to play the game a little
more, and their conversation was very naturally about Benjamin's
poetry.
"I had no idea," remarked Osborne, "that Ben could write poetry like
that. I was ashamed of my own when I heard his. I knew him to be a
talented fellow; but I had no idea that he was a poet. His production
was certainly very fine. In common conversation he seems to have no
choice of words; he hesitates and blunders; and yet, how he writes!"
"Possibly he might not have written it," suggested Ralph; a very
natural suggestion in the circumstances, though Osborne thought it was
an outrageous reflection.
"That is the unkindest cut of all," retorted Osborne; "to charge him
with plagiarism. Ben would never descend to so mean a thing as that."
They separated for that night; but Ralph embraced the first
opportunity to call on Benjamin, to exult over the success of their
little scheme. They laughed to their hearts' content, and discussed
the point of revealing the secret. They concluded finally, that the
real author of the article should be known at their next meeting.
Accordingly, the affair was managed so as to bring the facts of the
case before their companions at their next gathering. Osborne was
utterly confounded when the revelation was made, and knew not what to
say for himself.
Pages:
349
350
351
352
353
354
355
356
357
358
359
360
361
362
363
364
365
366
367
368
369
370
371
372
373