"So I've got you," he said; "I don't think I'll let you go again in a
hurry."
The son of the moon gave a queer little laugh.
"Why, it's Taylor!" he said pleasantly; "but, Taylor, you know
you're making a great mistake."
"Very possibly," said the keeper, with a laugh.
"You see this boy here, Taylor; I assure you he is much madder than I
am."
Taylor looked at the boy kindly.
"Time you were in bed, Tommy," he said.
"Taylor," said the man earnestly, "this boy has made three phrases.
If you don't lock him up he will certainly become a poet. He will
set your precious world of sanity ablaze with the fire of his mother,
the moon. Your palaces will totter, Taylor, and your kingdoms become
as dust. I have warned you."
"That's right, sir; and now you must come with me."
"Boy," said the man generously, "keep your liberty. By grace of
Providence, all men in authority are fools. We shall meet again under
the light of the moon."
With dreamy eyes the boy watched the departure of his companion. He
had become almost invisible along the road when, miraculously as it
seemed, the light of the moon broke through the trees by the wayside
and lit up his figure. For a moment it fell upon his head like a
halo, and touched the knapsack of dreams with glory. Then all was
lost in the blackness of night.
As he turned homeward the boy felt a cold wind upon his cheek. It was
the first breath of dawn.
The Coffin Merchant
I
London on a November Sunday inspired Eustace Reynolds with a
melancholy too insistent to be ignored and too causeless to be
enjoyed.
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