“You rewrote it!” roared Pym.  “You dared to meddle with—­” He was speechless with fury.

“I tried to keep my hand off,” Tommy said, with dignity, “but the thing had to be done, and they are human now.”

“Human! who wants them to be human?  The fiends seize you, boy! you have even been tinkering with my heroine’s personal appearance; what is this you have been doing to her nose?”

“I turned it up slightly, that’s all,” said Tommy.

“I like them down,” roared Pym.

“I prefer them up,” said Tommy, stiffly.

“Where,” cried Pym, turning over the leaves in a panic, “where is the scene in the burning house?”

“It’s out,” Tommy explained, “but there is a chapter in its place about—­it’s mostly about the beauty of the soul being everything, and mere physical beauty nothing.  Oh, Mr. Pym, sit down and let me read it to you.”

But Pym read it, and a great deal more, for himself.  No wonder he stormed, for the impossible had been made not only consistent, but unreadable.  The plot was lost for chapters.  The characters no longer did anything, and then went and did something else:  you were told instead how they did it.  You were not allowed to make up your own mind about them:  you had to listen to the mind of T. Sandys; he described and he analyzed; the road he had tried to clear through the thicket was impassable for chips.

“A few more weeks of this,” said Pym, “and we should all three be turned out into the streets.”

Tommy went to bed in an agony of mortification, but presently to his side came Pym.

“Where did you copy this from?” he asked. “’It is when we are thinking of those we love that our noblest thoughts come to us, and the more worthy they are of our love the nobler the thought; hence it is that no one has done the greatest work who did not love God.’”

“I copied it from nowhere,” replied Tommy, fiercely; “it’s my own.”

“Well, it has nothing to do with the story, and so is only a blot on it, and I have no doubt the thing has been said much better before.  Still, I suppose it is true.”

“It’s true,” said Tommy; “and yet—­”

“Go on.  I want to know all about it.”

“And yet,” Tommy said, puzzled, “I’ve known noble thoughts come to me when I was listening to a brass band.”

Pym chuckled.  “Funny things, noble thoughts,” he agreed.  He read another passage:  “’It was the last half-hour of day when I was admitted, with several others, to look upon my friend’s dead face.  A handkerchief had been laid over it.  I raised the handkerchief.  I know not what the others were thinking, but the last time we met he had told me something, it was not much—­only that no woman had ever kissed him.  It seemed to me that, as I gazed, the wistfulness came back to his face.  I whispered to a woman who was present, and stooping over him, she was about to—­but her eyes were dry, and I stopped her.  The handkerchief was replaced, and all left the room save myself.  Again I raised the handkerchief.  I cannot tell you how innocent he looked.’”