“yes, I see what you mean; I think I do, anyway. But what has it to do with me?”
“Well, I know most of the fellows pet and all that sort of thing, and they don’t think anything about it. But you ’re different; you love beautiful things as much as I do. You told me yourself that Jimmie Henley said last year that you were gifted. You can write and sing and run, but I ’ve just realized that you are n’t proud of those things at all; you just take them for granted. And you’re ashamed that you write poetry. Some of your poems are good, but you have n’t sent any of them to the poetry magazine. You don’t want anybody to know that you write poetry. You ’re trying to make yourself like fellows that are inferior-to you.”
Norry was piteously in earnest. His hero had crumbled into clay before his eyes, and he was try¬ ing to patch him together again preparatory to boosting him back upon his pedestal.
“Oh, cripes, Norry,” Hugh said a little im¬ patiently, “you exaggerate all my virtues; you always have. I’m not half the fellow you think I am. I do love beautiful things, but I don’t be¬ lieve my poetry is any good.” He paused a moment and then confessed mournfully: “I’ll admit, though, that I have been going downhill. I’m going to do better from now on. You watch ^ »» me.
They talked for hours, Norry embarrassing
