[Radioactive-developers] en time

[Budge <sp...@pa...>]

 rooms, Mr. Aram?" "It has no rooms, now," answered the poet. "It has
disbanded. It never had any regular rooms; we just met about and read."
"I see--exactly," said the editor. "And the house on Seventh Avenue from
which your third poem was sent--did you reside there then, or have you
always lived here?" "No, yes--I used to live there--I lived there when I
wrote that poem." The editor looked at the reporter and back at Mr.
Aram. "It is a vacant lot, Mr. Aram," he said, gravely. There was a long
pause. The poet rocked slowly up and down in his rocking-chair, and
looked at his hands, which he rubbed over one another as though they
were cold. Then he raised his head and cleared his throat. "Well,
gentlemen," he said, "you have made out your case." "Yes," said the
editor, regretfully, "we have made out our case." He could not help but
wish that the fellow had stuck to his original denial. It was too easy a
victory. "I don't say, mind you," went on Mr. Aram, "that I ever took
anybody's verses and sent them to a paper as my own, but I ask you, as
one gentleman talking to another, and inquiring for information, what is
there wrong in doing it? I say, _if_ I had done it, which I don't admit
I ever did, where's the harm?" "Where's the harm?" cried the two
visitors in chorus. "Obtaining money under false pretences," said the
editor, "is the harm you do the publishers, and robbing another man of
the work of his brain and what credit belongs to him is the harm you do
him, and telling a lie is the least harm done. Such a contemptible
foolish lie, too, that you might have known would surely find you out in
spite of the trouble you took to--" "I never asked y