seph!Jo—seph!"andthenheranashardaseverhecouldacrossthecourt,whileanelderlyman,inagreenapron,carryinganimmensepileoftincovers,hesitated,balanced,andthenwenton.Butthiswasadiversion.Therewereyoungmenwhoread,lyinginshallowarm-chairs,holdingtheirbooksasiftheyhadholdintheirhandsofsomethingthatwouldseethemthroughtheybeingallinatorment,comingfrommidlandtowns,clergymen'ssons.OthersreadKeats.Andthoselonghistoriesinmanyvolumes—surelysomeonewasnowbeginningatthebeginninginordertounderstandtheHolyRomanEmpire,asonemust.Thatwaspartoftheconcentration,thoughitwouldbedangerousonahotspringnight—dangerous,perhaps,toconcentratetoomuchuponsinglebooks,actualchapters,whenatanymomentthedooropenedandJacobappearedorRichardBonamy,readingKeatsnolonger,beganmakinglongpinkspillsfromanoldnewspaper,bendingforward,andlookingeagerandcontentednomore,butalmostfierce.Why?OnlyperhapsthatKeatsdiedyoung—onewantstowritepoetrytooandtolove—oh,thebrutes!It'sdamnablydifficult.But,afterall,notsodifficultifonthenextstaircase,inthelargeroom,therearetwo,three,fiveyoungmenallconvincedofthis—ofbrutality,thatis,andthecleardivisionbetweenrightandwrong.Therewasasofa,chairs,asquaretable,andthewindowbeingopen,onecouldseehowtheysat—legsissuinghere,onetherecrumpledinacornerofthesofaand,presumably,foryoucouldnotseehim,somebodystoodbythefender,talking.Anyhow,Jacob,whosatastrideachairandatedatesfromalongbox,burstoutlaughing.Theanswercamefromthesofacornerforhispipewasheldintheair,thenreplaced.Jacobwheeledround.HehadsomethingtosaytoTHAT,thoughthesturdyred-hairedboyatthetableseemedtodenyit,wagginghisheadslowlyfromsidetosideandthen,takingouthispenknife,hedugthepointofitagainandagainintoaknotinthetable,asifaffirmingthatthevoicefromthefenderspokethetruth—whichJacobcouldnotdeny.Possibly,whenhehaddonearrangingthedate-stones,hemightfindsomethingtosaytoit—indeedhislipsopened—onlythentherebrokeoutaroaroflaughter.
Thelaughterdiedintheair.ThesoundofitcouldscarcelyhavereachedanyonestandingbytheChapel,whichstretchedalongtheoppositesideofthecourt.Thelaughterdiedout,andonlygesturesofarms,movementsofbodies,couldbeseenshapingsomethingintheroom.Wasitanargument?Abetontheboatraces?Wasitnothingofthesort?Whatwasshapedbythearmsandbodiesmovinginthetwilightroom?
Asteportwobeyondthewindowtherewasnothingatall,excepttheenclosingbuildings—chimneysupright,roofshorizontaltoomuchbrickandbuildingforaMaynight,perhaps.Andthenbeforeone'seyeswouldcomethebarehillsofTurkey—sharplines,dryearth,colouredflowers,andcolourontheshouldersofthewomen,standingnaked-leggedinthestreamtobeatlinenonthestones.Thestreammadeloopsofwaterroundtheirankles.ButnoneofthatcouldshowclearlythroughtheswaddlingsandblanketingsoftheCambridgenight.Thestrokeoftheclockevenwasmuffledasifintonedbysomebodyreverentfromapulpitasifgenerationsoflea