202 THE YELLOW PATCH V And now the reader sees the human significance of The Daffodil Fields — begins to realize that there are battle-fields below them. The Street of To-day was spoiled by bitterness ; but it was a bitterness due to lack of sympathy ; the cure for that lack of sympathy was simply increased human knowledge — the kind of experience that a novelist needs, and wants, and welcomes. Another long modern novel might have brought Masefield into port. But no new long novel came. Instead — The Everlasting Mercy. Our man had fallen back into the dangerous precincts of Poetry ; he was writing a long tale in verse. And at first it did seem as though he must have found some protective spell — The Everlasting Mercy was never awestruck for one second. The freshness of the medium, the rap of the rhymes, the idea of doing something rather daring, all roused that healthy element of impishness which had saved him once or twice before ; and up and down the ratlines of the metre his wits went scampering like schoolboys in a rigging. By Dead Man's Thorn, while setting wires, Who should come up but Billy Myers, A friend of mine, who used to be As black a sprig of hell as me, With whom I'd planned, to save encroachin'. Which fields and coverts each should poach in. Now when he saw me set my snare — He tells me " Get to hell from there. This field is mine," he says, "by right; If you poach here, there'll be a fight. Out now," he says, "and leave your wire — It's mine." S.K. "It ain't." B.M. "You put." S.K. "You liar." B.M. "You closhy put." S.K. "You liar."
