He had not, however, expected Mr.
Seven Sachs to walk into the _Lithuania's_ music-saloon an hour before
the ship touched the quay. Nevertheless, this was what Mr. Seven
Sachs did, by the exercise of those mysterious powers wielded by the
influential in democratic communities.
"And what are you doing here?" Mr. Seven Sachs greeted Edward Henry
with geniality.
Edward Henry lowered his voice.
"I'm throwing good money after bad," said he.
The friendly grip of Mr. Seven Sachs's hand did him good, reassured
him, and gave him courage. He was utterly tired of the voyage, and
also of the poetical society of Carlo Trent, whose passage had cost
him thirty pounds, considerable boredom, and some sick-nursing during
the final days and nights. A dramatic poet with an appetite was a full
dose for Edward Henry; but a dramatic poet who lay on his back and
moaned for naught but soda-water and dry land amounted to more than
Edward Henry could conveniently swallow.
He directed Mr. Sachs's attention to the anguished and debile organism
which had once been Carlo Trent, and Mr. Sachs was so sympathetic
that Carlo Trent began to adore him, and Edward Henry to be somewhat
disturbed in his previous estimate of Mr. Sachs's common sense. But at
a favourable moment Mr. Sachs breathed humorously into Edward Henry's
ear the question:
"What have you brought _him_ out for?"
"I've brought him out to lose him.
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