The Imp and the Author
Later, sounds mingled with the Imp's dreams: a long, low murmur, often interrupted. Someone, far off, seemed talking, talking softly to someone else.
And still later he seemed to be on his boat—he was, indeed, first mate—and there was a high sea. He pitched and tossed, and woke with a start to find himself journeying homeward high up in the Author's arms. But they were not alone. A tall young man was walking close behind, carrying the beach-umbrella, his hand on the shoulder where the Imp's head lay, his eyes fixed wonderingly on his father's face.
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