“Poor stuff,” he said to the bookseller, tossing it down again.  “Give me ’Ars ne Lupin’.”  And he paid two sous for a paper-covered, dog-eared, much-thumbed copy of the famous detective story, not because he intended to read it, but in payment for his hour of disillusionment.  Then he slung his pack over his shoulders and tramped out into the country.  He laughed aloud at the thought of Helen and her idolaters.  A poetic hoax.  Overripe words.  Seductive sounds.  Nonsense!

“Surely I can do better than that to-day,” he thought.

He saw two children working in a field, and called to them.

“If you will give me a cup of cold water,” he said, “I’ll tell you a story.”

“Gladly, monsieur.”

The boy put down his spade, went to a brook which threaded the field and came back with an earthenware jug full to the brim.  The little girl stared gravely at Grimshaw while he drank.  Grimshaw wiped his mouth with the back of his hand.

“What story shall it be?” he demanded.

The little girl said quickly:  “The black king and the white princess and the beast who lived in the wood.”

“Not that one,” the boy cried.  “Tell us about a battle.”

“I will sing about life,” Grimshaw said.

It was hot in the field.  A warm, sweet smell rose from the spaded earth and near by the brook rustled through the grass like a beautiful silver serpent.  Grimshaw sat cross-legged on the ground and words spun from his lips—­simple words.  And he sang of things he had recently learned—­the gaiety of birds, the strength of his arms, the scent of dusk, the fine crystal of a young moon, wind in a field of wheat....

At first the children listened.  Then, because he talked so long, the little girl leaned slowly over against his shoulder and fell asleep, while the boy fingered the knives, jangled the key-rings, clipped grass stalks with the scissors, and wound the watches one after the other.  The sun was low before Grimshaw left them.  “When you are grown up,” he said, “remember that Pierre Pilleux sang to you of life.”

“Oui, monsieur,” the boy said politely.  “But I should like a watch.”

Grimshaw shook his head.  “The song is enough.”

Thereafter he sang to any one who would listen to him.  I say that he sang—­I mean, of course, that he spoke his verses; it was a minstrel’s simple improvisation.  But there are people in the villages of southern France who still recall that ungainly, shambling figure.  He had grown a beard; it crinkled thickly, hiding his mouth and chin.  He laughed a great deal.  He was not altogether clean.  And he slept wherever he could find a bed—­in farmhouses, cheap hotels, haylofts, stables, open fields.  Waram’s few hundred pounds were gone.  The poet lived by his wits and his gift of song.  And for the first time in his remembrance he was happy.

Then one day he read in Le Matin that Ada Rubenstein was to play “The Labyrinth” in Paris.  Grimshaw was in Poitiers.  He borrowed three hundred francs from the proprietor of a small cafe in the Rue Carnot, left his pack as security, and went to Paris.  Can you imagine him in the theatre—­it was the Odeon, I believe—­conscious of curious, amused glances—­a peasant, bulking conspicuously in that scented auditorium?