"You can write what I want if you chose--no man better," he was saying.
Vane was listening not altogether attentively. His thoughts were
elsewhere.
"And supposing I don't choose."
"Then you'll be an arrant fool," sneered Curll angrily. "You're out at
elbows. You haven't a penny to bless yourself with. You don't eat, but
you can always drink provided you run across a friend who by chance has
some money in his pocket. What'll be the end of it all? You'll go
down--down among the dregs of Grub Street and you'll never rise again."
"Not so, Mr. Curll," cried Vane hotly. "I've great hopes. I've a
tragedy----"
"A tragedy! _That_ for your tragedy."
Curll snapped his fingers scornfully.
"Why, my young friend, supposing you get your tragedy staged, it will be
played one night--if extraordinarily successful two nights, or three at
the most. What do you think you will get out of it? Nothing. But perhaps
you fancy yourself a Congreve or a Farquhar?"
"Neither Congreve nor Farquhar wrote tragedies, sir," retorted Vane
stiffly.
"Indeed! What about Mr. Congreve's 'Mourning Bride?'"
"I prefer his comedies, sir."
"And so do I, but that's nothing to the point. May be you consider that
you're equal to Mr. Otway or even Mr. Cibber, I leave Mr. Gay out of the
count. He's written nothing that's likely to live and never will. He's
too lazy."
"You dislike Mr.
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