Kennedy, who had known him the longest and best, and who knew that if his mind could once be set working he would recover his tongue and wits, having seen him before in a similar crisis, stepped nearer and laid both hands on Poe's shoulders.
Get Poe to talking and he would be himself again; let him once be seated, and ten chances to one he would fall asleep at the table.
"No, don't sit down, Mr.Poe--not yet.

Give us that great story of yours--the one you told at my house that night--we have never forgotten it.

Gentlemen, all take your seats--I promise you one of the great treats of your lives." Poe stood for an instant undecided, the light of the candles illumining his black hair, pallid face, and haggard features; fixed his eyes on Todd and Malachi, as if trying to account for their presence, and stood wavering, his deep, restless eyes gleaming like slumbering coals flashing points of hot light.
Again Mr.Kennedy's voice rang out: "Any one of your stories, Mr.Poe--we leave it to you." Everybody was seated now, with eyes fixed on the poet.

Harry, overcome and still dazed, pressed close to Richard, who, bending forward, had put his elbow on the table, his chin in his hand.

Clayton wheeled up a big chair and placed it back some little distance so that he could get a better view of the man.