It was Rachel who first discovered “To My Lady's Spring Hat” in the Item
three weeks later. She came rushing into the sitting room brandishing
the paper.
“My soul! My soul! My soul!” she cried.
Olive, sitting sewing by the window, was, naturally, somewhat startled.
“Mercy on us, Rachel!” she exclaimed. “What IS it?”
“Look!” cried the housekeeper, pointing to the contribution in the
“Poets' Corner” as Queen Isabella may have pointed at the evidence of
her proteges discovery of a new world. “LOOK!”
Mrs. Snow looked, read the verses to herself, and then aloud.
“Why, I declare, they're real sort of pretty, ain't they?” she
exclaimed, in astonished admiration.
“Pretty! They're perfectly elegant! And right here in the paper for all
hands to see. Ain't you PROUD of him, Mrs. Snow?”
Olive had been growing more and more proud of her handsome grandson ever
since his arrival. She was prouder still now and said so. Rachel nodded,
triumphantly.
“He'll be a Robert Penfold afore he dies, or I miss MY guess!” she
declared.
She showed it to feminine acquaintances all over town, and Olive, when
callers came, took pains to see that a copy of the Item, folded with the
“Poets' Corner” uppermost, lay on the center table. Customers, dropping
in at the office, occasionally mentioned the poem to its author.
“See you had a piece in the Item, Al,” was their usual way of referring
to it. “Pretty cute piece 'twas, too, seemed to me. Say, that girl of
yours must have SOME spring bunnit. Ho, ho!”
Issachar deigned to express approval, approval qualified with discerning
criticism of course, but approval nevertheless.
“Pretty good piece, Al,” he observed. “Pretty good. Glad to see you done
so well. Course you made one little mistake, but 'twan't a very big one.
That part where you said--What was it, now? Where'd I put that piece of
poetry? Oh, yes, here 'tis! Where you said--er--er--
'It floats upon her golden curls
As froth upon the wave.'
Now of course nothin'--a hat or nothin' else--is goin' to float on top
of a person's head. Froth floatin', that's all right, you understand;
but even if you took froth right out of the water and slapped it up onto
anybody's hair 'twouldn't FLOAT up there. If you'd said,
'It SETS up onto her golden curls,
Same as froth sets on top of a wave.'
that would have been all right and true. But there, don't feel bad about
it. It's only a little mistake, same as anybody's liable to make. Nine
persons out of ten wouldn't have noticed it. I'm extry partic'lar, I
presume likely. I'm findin' mistakes like that all the time.”
Laban's comment was less critical, perhaps, but more reserved.
“It's pretty good, Al,” he said. “Yes--er--yes, sir, it's pretty good.
It ain't all new, there's some of it that's been written before, but I
rather guess that might have been said about Shakespeare's poetry when
he fust commenced. It's pretty good, Al. Yes--yes, yes. It is so.”
Albert was inclined to resent the qualified strain in the bookkeeper's
praise. He was tempted to be sarcastic.
“Well,” he observed, “of course you've read so much real poetry that you
ought to know.”
Laban nodded, slowly. “I've read a good deal,” he said quietly. “Readin'
is one of the few things I ain't made a failure of in this life. Um-hm.
One of the few. Yes yes--yes.”
He dipped his pen in the inkwell and carefully made an entry in the
ledger. His assistant felt a sudden pang of compunction.
“I beg your pardon, Mr. Keeler,” he said. “That was pretty fresh of me.
I'm sorry.”
Laban looked up in mild surprise. “Sorry?” he repeated. “What for? . . .
Oh, that's all right, Al, that's all right. Lord knows I'm the last one
on earth who'd ought to criticize anybody. All I had in mind in sayin'
what I did was to--well, to kind of keep you from bein' too well
satisfied and not try harder on the next one. It don't pay to be too
well satisfied. . . . Years ago, I can remember, _I_ was pretty well
satisfied--with myself and my work. Sounds like a joke, I know, but
'twas so. . . . Well, I've had a nice long chance to get over it. Um-hm.
Yes--yes. So I have, so I have.”
Only Captain Zelotes at first said nothing about the poem. He read it,
his wife saw to that, but his comment even to her was a non-committal
grunt.
“But don't you think it's real sort of pretty, Zelotes?” she asked.
The captain grunted again. “Why, I guess likely 'tis if you say so,
Mother. I don't know much about such things.”
“But everybody says it is.”
“Want to know! Well, then 'twon't make much difference whether I say it
or not.”
“But ain't you goin' to say a word to Albert about it, Zelotes?”
“Humph! I don't know's I know what to say.”
“Why, say you like it.”
“Ye-es, and if I do he'll keep on writin' more. That's exactly what I
don't want him to do. Come now, Mother, be sensible. This piece of his
may be good or it may not, _I_ wouldn't undertake to say. But this I do
know: I don't want the boy to spend his time writin' poetry slush for
that 'Poets' Corner.' Letitia Makepeace did that--she had a piece in
there about every week--and she died in the Taunton asylum.”
“But, Zelotes, it wasn't her poetry got her into the asylum.”
“Wan't it? Well, she was in the poorhouse afore that. I don't know
whether 'twas her poetryin' that got her in there, but I know darned
well it didn't get her out.”
“But ain't you goin' to say one word? 'Twould encourage him so.”
“Good Lord! We don't want to encourage him, do we? If he was takin' to
thievin' you wouldn't encourage him in that, would you?”
“Thievin'! Zelotes Snow, you don't mean to say you compare a poet to a
THIEF!”
The captain grinned. “No-o, Mother,” he observed drily. “Sometimes a
thief can manage to earn a livin' at his job. But there, there, don't
feel bad. I'll say somethin' to Al, long's you think I ought to.”
The something was not much, and yet Captain Zelotes really meant it to
be kindly and to sound like praise. But praising a thing of which you
have precious little understanding and with which you have absolutely no
sympathy is a hard job.
“See you had a piece in the Item this week, Al,” observed the captain.
“Why--yes, sir,” said Albert.
“Um-hm. I read it. I don't know much about such things, but they tell me
it is pretty good.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Eh? Oh, you're welcome.”
That was all. Perhaps considering its source it was a good deal, but
Albert was not of the age where such considerations are likely to be
made.
Helen's praise was warm and enthusiastic. “I knew you could do it if you
only would,” she declared. “And oh, I'm SO glad you did! Now you must
keep on trying.”
That bit of advice was quite superfluous. Young Speranza having sampled
the sublime intoxication of seeing himself in print, was not ready to
sober off yet a while. He continued to bombard the Item with verses.
They were invariably accepted, but when he sent to a New York magazine
a poem which he considered a gem, the promptness with which it was
returned staggered his conceit and was in that respect a good thing for
him.
However, he kept on trying. Helen would not have permitted him to
give up even if he had wished. She was quite as much interested in his
literary aspirations as he was himself and her encouragement was a great
help to him. After months of repeated trial and repeated rejection he
opened an envelope bearing the name of a fairly well-known periodical to
find therein a kindly note stating that his poem, “Sea Spaces” had been
accepted. And a week later came a check for ten dollars. That was a day
of days. Incidentally it was the day of a trial balance in the office
and the assistant bookkeeper's additions and multiplications contained
no less than four ghastly errors.
The next afternoon there was an interview in the back office. Captain
Zelotes and his grandson were the participants. The subject discussed
was “Business versus Poetry,” and there was a marked difference of
opinion. Albert had proclaimed his triumph at home, of course, had
exhibited his check, had been the recipient of hugs and praises from his
grandmother and had listened to paeans and hallelujahs from Mrs. Ellis.
When he hurried around to the parsonage after supper, Helen had been
excited and delighted at the good news. Albert had been patted on the
back quite as much as was good for a young man whose bump of self-esteem
was not inclined toward under-development. When he entered the private
office of Z. Snow and Co. in answer to his grandfather's summons, he did
so light-heartedly, triumphantly, with self-approval written large upon
him.
But though he came like a conquering hero, he was not received like one.
Captain Zelotes sat at his desk, the copy of the Boston morning paper
which he had been reading sticking out of the waste basket into which
it had been savagely jammed a half hour before. The news had not been to
the captain's liking. These were the September days of 1914; the German
Kaiser was marching forward “mit Gott” through Belgium, and it began to
look as if he could not be stopped short of Paris. Consequently, Captain
Zelotes, his sympathies from the first with England and the Allies, was
not happy in his newspaper reading.
Albert entered, head erect and eyes shining. If Gertie Kendrick could
have seen him then she would have fallen down and worshiped. His
grandfather looked at him in silence for a moment, tapping his desk with
the stump of a pencil. Albert, too, was silent; he was already thinking
of another poem with which to dazzle the world, and his head was among
the rosy clouds.
“Sit down, Al,” said Captain Zelotes shortly.
Albert reluctantly descended to earth and took the battered armchair
standing beside the desk. The captain tapped with his pencil upon the
figure-covered sheet of paper before him. Then he said:
“Al, you've been here three years come next December, ain't you?”
“Why--yes, sir, I believe I have.”
“Um-hm, you have. And for the heft of that time you've been in this
office.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Yes. And Labe Keeler and I have been doin' our best to make a business
man out of you. You understand we have, don't you?”
Albert looked puzzled and a little uneasy. Into his roseate dreams was
just beginning to filter the idea that his grandfather's tone and manner
were peculiar.
“Why, yes, sir, of course I understand it,” he replied.
“Well, I asked you because I wasn't quite sure whether you did or not.
Can you guess what this is I've got on my desk here?”
He tapped the figure-covered sheet of paper once more. Before Albert
could speak the captain answered his own question.
“I'll tell you what it is,” he went on. “It's one of the latest samples
of your smartness as a business man. I presume likely you know that
Laban worked here in this office until three o'clock this mornin',
didn't you?”
Albert did not know it. Mr. Keeler had told him nothing of the sort.
“Why, no,” he replied. “Did he? What for?”
“Ye-es, he did. And what for? Why, just to find out what was the matter
with his trial balance, that's all. When one of Labe's trial balances
starts out for snug harbor and ends up on a reef with six foot of water
in her hold, naturally Labe wants to get her afloat and pumped dry as
quick as possible. He ain't used to it, for one thing, and it makes him
nervous.”
Albert's uneasiness grew. When his grandfather's speech became sarcastic
and nautical, the young man had usually found that there was trouble
coming for somebody.
“I--I'm sorry Laban had to stay so late,” he stammered. “I should have
been glad to stay and help him, but he didn't ask me.”
“No-o. Well, it may possibly be that he cal'lated he was carryin' about
all your help that the craft would stand, as 'twas. Any more might sink
her. See here, young feller--” Captain Zelotes dropped his quiet sarcasm
and spoke sharp and brisk: “See here,” he said, “do you realize that
this sheet of paper I've got here is what stands for a day's work done
by you yesterday? And on this sheet there was no less than four silly
mistakes that a child ten years old hadn't ought to make, that an
able-bodied idiot hadn't ought to make. But YOU made 'em, and they kept
Labe Keeler here till three o'clock this mornin'. Now what have you got
to say for yourself?”
As a matter of fact, Albert had very little to say, except that he was
sorry, and that his grandfather evidently did not consider worth the
saying. He waved the protestation aside.
“Sorry!” he repeated impatiently. “Of course you're sorry, though even
at that I ain't sure you're sorry enough. Labe was sorry, too, I don't
doubt, when his bedtime went by and he kept runnin' afoul of one of your
mistakes after another. I'm sorry, darned sorry, to find out that
you can make such blunders after three years on board here under such
teachin' as you've had. But bein' sorry don't help any to speak of. Any
fool can be sorry for his foolishness, but if that's all, it don't help
a whole lot. Is bein' sorry the best excuse you've got to offer? What
made you make the mistakes in the first place?”
Albert's face was darkly red under the lash of his grandfather's tongue.
Captain Zelotes and he had had disagreements and verbal encounters
before, but never since they had been together had the captain spoken
like this. And the young fellow was no longer seventeen, he was twenty.
The flush began to fade from his cheeks and the pallor which meant the
rise of the Speranza temper took its place.
“What made you make such fool blunders?” repeated the captain. “You knew
better, didn't you?”
“Yes,” sullenly, “I suppose I did.”
“You know mighty well you did. And as nigh as I can larn from what I
got out of Laban--which wasn't much; I had to pump it out of him word
by word--this ain't the first set of mistakes you've made. You make 'em
right along. If it wasn't for him helpin' you out and coverin' up your
mistakes, this firm would be in hot water with its customers two-thirds
of the time and the books would be fust-rate as a puzzle, somethin' to
use for a guessin' match, but plaguey little good as straight accounts
of a goin' concern. Now what makes you act this way? Eh? What makes
you?”
“Oh, I don't know. See here, Grandfather--”
“Hold on a minute. You don't know, eh? Well, I know. It ain't because
you ain't smart enough to keep a set of books and keep 'em well. I don't
expect you to be a Labe Keeler; there ain't many bookkeepers like him on
this earth. But I do know you're smart enough to keep my books and keep
'em as they'd ought to be, if you want to keep 'em. The trouble with
you is that you don't want to. You've got too much of your
good-for-nothin--” Captain Lote pulled up short, cleared his throat,
and went on: “You've got too much 'poet' in you,” he declared, “that's
what's the matter.”
Albert leaned forward. “That wasn't what you were going to say,” he said
quickly. “You were going to say that I had too much of my father in me.”
It was the captain's turn to redden. “Eh?” he stammered. “Why, I--I--How
do you know what I was goin' to say?”
“Because I do. You say it all the time. Or, if you don't say it, you
look it. There is hardly a day that I don't catch you looking at me as
if you were expecting me to commit murder or do some outrageous thing
or other. And I know, too, that it is all because I'm my father's son.
Well, that's all right; feel that way about me if you want to, I can't
help it.”
“Here, here, Al! Hold on! Don't--”
“I won't hold on. And I tell you this: I hate this work here. You say
I don't want to keep books. Well, I don't. I'm sorry I made the errors
yesterday and put Keeler to so much trouble, but I'll probably make
more. No,” with a sudden outburst of determination, “I won't make
any more. I won't, because I'm not going to keep books any more. I'm
through.”
Captain Zelotes leaned back in his chair.
“You're what?” he asked slowly.
“I'm through. I'll never work in this office another day. I'm through.”
The captain's brows drew together as he stared steadily at his grandson.
He slowly tugged at his beard.
“Humph!” he grunted, after a moment. “So you're through, eh? Goin' to
quit and go somewheres else, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Um-hm. I see. Where are you goin' to go?”
“I don't know. But I'm not going to make a fool of myself at this job
any longer. I can't keep books, and I won't keep them. I hate business.
I'm no good at it. And I won't stay here.”
“I see. I see. Well, if you won't keep on in business, what will you do
for a livin'? Write poetry?”
“Perhaps.”
“Um-m. Be kind of slim livin', won't it? You've been writin' poetry
for about a year and a half, as I recollect, and so far you've made ten
dollars.”
“That's all right. If I don't make it I may starve, as you are always
saying that writers do. But, starve or not, I shan't ask YOU to take
care of me.”
“I've taken care of you for three years or so.”
“Yes. But you did it because--because--Well, I don't know why you did,
exactly, but you won't have to do it any longer. I'm through.”
The captain still stared steadily, and what he saw in the dark eyes
which flashed defiance back at him seemed to trouble him a little. His
tugs at his beard became more strenuous.
“Humph!” he muttered. “Humph! . . . Well, Al, of course I can't make you
stay by main force. Perhaps I could--you ain't of age yet--but I shan't.
And you want to quit the ship altogether, do you?”
“If you mean this office--yes, I do.”
“I see, I see. Want to quit South Harniss and your grandmother--and
Rachel--and Labe--and Helen--and all the rest of 'em?”
“Not particularly. But I shall have to, of course.”
“Yes. . . . Um-hm. . . . Yes. Have you thought how your grandmother's
liable to feel when she hears you are goin' to clear out and leave her?”
Albert had not thought in that way, but he did now. His tone was a
trifle less combative as he answered.
“She'll be sorry at first, I suppose,” he said, “but she'll get over
it.”
“Um-hm. Maybe she will. You can get over 'most anything in time--'MOST
anything. Well, and how about me? How do you think I'll feel?”
Albert's chin lifted. “You!” he exclaimed. “Why, you'll be mighty glad
of it.”
Captain Zelotes picked up the pencil stump and twirled it in his
fingers. “Shall I?” he asked. “You think I will, do you?”
“Of course you will. You don't like me, and never did.”
“So I've heard you say. Well, boy, don't you cal'late I like you at
least as much as you like me?”
“No. What do you mean? I like you well enough. That is, I should if
you gave me half a chance. But you don't do it. You hate me because my
father--”
The captain interrupted. His big palm struck the desk.
“DON'T say that again!” he commanded. “Look here, if I hated you do you
suppose I'd be talkin' to you like this? If I hated you do you cal'late
I'd argue when you gave me notice? Not by a jugful! No man ever came to
me and said he was goin' to quit and had me beg him to stay. If we was
at sea he stayed until we made port; then he WENT, and he didn't hang
around waitin' for a boat to take him ashore neither. I don't hate you,
son. I'd ask nothin' better than a chance to like you, but you won't
give it to me.”
Albert's eyes and mouth opened.
“_I_ won't give YOU a chance?” he repeated.
“Sartin. DO you give me one? I ask you to keep these books of mine.
You could keep 'em A Number One. You're smart enough to do it. But you
won't. You let 'em go to thunder and waste your time makin' up fool
poetry and such stuff.”
“But I like writing, and I don't like keeping books.”
“Keepin' books is a part of l'arnin' the business, and business is the
way you're goin' to get your livin' by and by.”
“No, it isn't. I am going to be a writer.”
“Now DON'T say that silly thing again! I don't want to hear it.”
“I shall say it because it is true.”
“Look here, boy: When I tell you or anybody else in this office to do
or not to do a thing, I expect 'em to obey orders. And I tell you not
to talk any more of that foolishness about bein' a writer. D'you
understand?”
“Yes, of course I understand.”
“All right, then, that much is settled. . . . Here! Where are you
goin'?”
Albert had turned and was on his way out of the office. He stopped and
answered over his shoulder, “I'm going home,” he said.
“Goin' HOME? Why, you came from home not more than an hour and a half
ago! What are you goin' there again now for?”
“To pack up my things.”
“To pack up your things! To pack up--Humph! So you really mean it!
You're really goin' to quit me like this? And your grandma, too!”
The young man felt a sudden pang of compunction, a twinge of conscience.
“Grandfather,” he said, “I'm sorry. I--”
But the change in his attitude and tone came too late. Captain Lote's
temper was boiling now, contradiction was its worst provocative.
“Goin' to quit!” he sneered. “Goin' to quit because you don't like to
work. All right, quit then! Go ahead! I've done all I can to make a man
of you. Go to the devil in your own way.”
“Grandfather, I--”
“Go ahead! _I_ can't stop you. It's in your breed, I cal'late.”
That was sufficient. Albert strode out of the private office, head
erect. Captain Zelotes rose and slammed the door after his departing
grandson.
At ten that evening Albert was in his room, sitting in a chair by the
window, gloomily looking out. The packing, most of it, had been done. He
had not, as he told his grandfather he intended doing, left the office
immediately and come straight home to pack. As he emerged from the inner
office after the stormy interview with the captain he found Laban Keeler
hard at work upon the books. The sight of the little man, so patiently
and cheerfully pegging away, brought another twinge of conscience to
the assistant bookkeeper. Laban had been such a brick in all their
relationships. It must have been a sore trial to his particular,
business-like soul, those errors in the trial balance. Yet he had not
found fault nor complained. Captain Zelotes himself had said that every
item concerning his grandson's mistakes and blunders had been dragged
from Mr. Keeler much against the latter's will. Somehow Albert could not
bear to go off and leave him at once. He would stay and finish his day's
work, for Labe Keeler's sake.
So stay he did and when Captain Zelotes later came out of his private
office and found him there neither of them spoke. At home, during
supper, nothing was said concerning the quarrel of the afternoon. Yet
Albert was as determined to leave as ever, and the Captain, judging by
the expression of his face, was just as determined to do nothing more to
prevent him. After supper the young man went to his room and began the
packing. His grandfather went out, an unusual proceeding for him, saying
that he guessed he would go down street for a spell.
Now Albert, as he sat there by the window, was gloomy enough. The wind,
howling and wailing about the gables of the old house, was not an aid
to cheerfulness and he needed every aid. He had sworn to go away, he was
going away--but where should he go? He had a little money put by, not
much but a little, which he had been saving for quite another purpose.
This would take him a little way, would pay his bills for a short time,
but after that--Well, after that he could earn more. With the optimism
of youth and the serene self-confidence which was natural to him he was
sure of succeeding sooner or later. It was not the dread of failure and
privation which troubled him. The weight which was pressing upon his
spirit was not the fear of what might happen to him.
There was a rap upon the door. Then a voice, the housekeeper's voice,
whispered through the crack.
“It's me, Al,” whispered Mrs. Ellis. “You ain't in bed yet, are you? I'd
like to talk with you a minute or two, if I might.”
He was not anxious to talk to her or anyone else just then, but he told
her to come in. She entered on tiptoe, with the mysterious air of a
conspirator, and shut the door carefully after her.
“May I set down just a minute?” she asked. “I can generally talk better
settin'.”
He pulled forward the ancient rocker with the rush seat. The
cross-stitch “tidy” on the back was his mother's handiwork, she had made
it when she was fifteen. Rachel sat down in the rocker.
“Al” she began, still in the same mysterious whisper, “I know all about
it.”
He looked at her. “All about what?” he asked.
“About the trouble you and Cap'n Lote had this afternoon. I know you're
plannin' to leave us all and go away somewheres and that he told you to
go, and all that. I know what you've been doin' up here to-night. Fur's
that goes,” she added, with a little catch in her breath and a wave of
her hand toward the open trunk and suitcase upon the floor, “I wouldn't
need to know, I could SEE.”
Albert was surprised and confused. He had supposed the whole affair to
be, so far, a secret between himself and his grandfather.
“You know?” he stammered. “You--How did you know?”
“Laban told me. Labe came hurryin' over here just after supper and
told me the whole thing. He's awful upset about it, Laban is. He thinks
almost as much of you as he does of Cap'n Lote or--or me,” with an
apologetic little smile.
Albert was astonished and troubled. “How did Labe know about it?” he
demanded.
“He heard it all. He couldn't help hearin'.”
“But he couldn't have heard. The door to the private office was shut.”
“Yes, but the window at the top--the transom one, you know--was wide
open. You and your grandpa never thought of that, I guess, and Laban
couldn't hop up off his stool and shut it without givin' it away that
he'd been hearin'. So he had to just set and listen and I know how he
hated doin' that. Laban Keeler ain't the listenin' kind. One thing about
it all is a mercy,” she added, fervently. “It's the Lord's own mercy
that that Issy Price wasn't where HE could hear it, too. If Issy heard
it you might as well paint it up on the town-hall fence; all creation
and his wife wouldn't larn it any sooner.”
Albert drew a long breath. “Well,” he said, after a moment, “I'm sorry
Labe heard, but I don't suppose it makes much difference. Everyone will
know all about it in a day or two . . . I'm going.”
Rachel leaned forward.
“No, you ain't, Al,” she said.
“I'm not? Indeed I am! Why, what do you mean?”
“I mean just what I say. You ain't goin'. You're goin' to stay right
here. At least I hope you are, and I THINK you are. . . . Oh, I know,”
she added, quickly, “what you are goin' to say. You're goin' to tell me
that your grandpa is down on you on account of your father, and that you
don't like bookkeepin', and that you want to write poetry and--and such.
You'll say all that, and maybe it's all true, but whether 'tis or not
ain't the point at all just now. The real point is that you're Janie
Snow's son and your grandpa's Cap'n Lote Snow and your grandma's Olive
Snow and there ain't goin' to be another smash-up in this family if I
can help it. I've been through one and one's enough. Albert, didn't you
promise me that Sunday forenoon three years ago when I came into the
settin'-room and we got talkin' about books and Robert Penfold and
everything--didn't you promise me then that when things between you and
your grandpa got kind of--of snarled up and full of knots you'd come
to me with 'em and we'd see if we couldn't straighten 'em out together?
Didn't you promise me that, Albert?”
Albert remembered the conversation to which she referred. As he
remembered it, however, he had not made any definite promise.
“You asked me to talk them over with you, Rachel,” he admitted. “I think
that's about as far as it went.”
“Well, maybe so, but now I ask you again. Will you talk this over with
me, Albert? Will you tell me every bit all about it, for my sake? And
for your grandma's sake. . . . Yes, more'n that, for your mother's sake,
Albert; she was pretty nigh like my own sister, Jane Snow was. Different
as night from day of course, she was pretty and educated and all that
and I was just the same then as I am now, but we did think a lot of each
other, Albert. Tell me the whole story, won't you, please. Just what
Cap'n Lote said and what you said and what you plan to do--and all?
Please, Albert.”
There were tears in her eyes. He had always liked her, but it was
a liking with a trace of condescension in it. She was peculiar, her
“sympathetic attacks” were funny, and she and Laban together were an odd
pair. Now he saw her in a new light and he felt a sudden rush of real
affection for her. And with this feeling, and inspired also by his
loneliness, came the impulse to comply with her request, to tell her all
his troubles.
He began slowly at first, but as he went on the words came quicker. She
listened eagerly, nodding occasionally, but saying nothing. When he had
finished she nodded again.
“I see,” she said. “'Twas almost what Laban said and about what he and
I expected. Well, Albert, I ain't goin' to be the one to blame you, not
very much anyhow. I don't see as you are to blame; you can't help the
way you're made. But your grandfather can't help bein' made his way,
either. He can't see with your spectacles and you can't see with his.”
He stirred rebelliously. “Then we had better go our own ways, I should
say,” he muttered.
“No, you hadn't. That's just what you mustn't do, not now, anyhow. As
I said before, there's been enough of all hands goin' their own ways in
this family and look what came of it.”
“But what do you expect me to do? I will not give up every plan I've
made and my chance in the world just because he is too stubborn and
cranky to understand them. I will NOT do it.”
“I don't want you to. But I don't want you to upset the whole kettle
just because the steam has scalded your fingers. I don't want you to
go off and leave your grandma to break her heart a second time and your
grandpa to give up all his plans and hopes that he's been makin' about
you.”
“Plans about me? He making plans about me? What sort of plans?”
“All sorts. Oh, he don't say much about 'em, of course; that ain't his
way. But from things he's let drop I know he has hoped to take you in
with him as a partner one of these days, and to leave you the business
after he's gone.”
“Nonsense, Rachel!”
“No, it ain't nonsense. It's the one big dream of Cap'n Lote's life.
That Z. Snow and Co. business is his pet child, as you might say. He
built it up, he and Labe together, and when he figgered to take you
aboard with him 'twas SOME chance for you, 'cordin' to his lookout. Now
you can't hardly blame him for bein' disappointed when you chuck that
chance away and take to writin' poetry pieces, can you?”
“But--but--why, confound it, Rachel, you don't understand!”
“Yes, I do, but your grandpa don't. And you don't understand him. . . .
Oh, Albert, DON'T be as stubborn as he is, as your mother was--the Lord
and she forgive me for sayin' it. She was partly right about marryin'
your pa and Cap'n Lote was partly right, too. If they had met half way
and put the two 'partlys' together the whole thing might have been right
in the end. As 'twas, 'twas all wrong. Don't, don't, DON'T, Albert, be
as stubborn as that. For their sakes, Al,--yes, and for my sake, for I'm
one of your family, too, or seems as if I was--don't.”
She hastily wiped her eyes with her apron. He, too was greatly moved.
“Don't cry, Rachel,” he muttered, hurriedly. “Please don't. . . . I
didn't know you felt this way. I didn't know anybody did. I don't want
to make trouble in the family--any more trouble. Grandmother has been
awfully good to me; so, too, has Grandfather, I suppose, in his way.
But--oh, what am I going to do? I can't stay in that office all my life.
I'm not good at business. I don't like it. I can't give up--”
“No, no, course you mustn't. I don't want you to give up.”
“Then what do you want me to do?”
“I want you to go to your grandpa and talk to him once more. Not givin'
up your plans altogether but not forcin' him to give up his either, not
right away. Tell him you realize he wants you to go on with Z. Snow and
Company and that you will--for a while--”
“But--”
“For a while, I said; three or four years, say. You won't be so dreadful
old then, not exactly what you'd call a Methusalem. Tell him you'll
do that and on his side he must let you write as much as you please,
provided you don't let the writin' interfere with the Z. Snow and Co.
work. Then, at the end of the three or four years, if you still feel
the same as you do now, you can tackle your poetry for keeps and he and
you'll still be friends. Tell him that, Albert, and see what he says.
. . . Will you?”
Albert took some moments to consider. At length he said: “If I did I
doubt if he would listen.”
“Oh, yes he would. He'd more than listen, I'm pretty sartin. I think
he'd agree.”
“You do?”
“Yes, I do. You see,” with a smile, “while I've been talkin' to you
there's been somebody else talkin' to him. . . . There, there! don't you
ask any questions. I promised not to tell anybody and if I ain't exactly
broke that promise, I've sprained its ankle, I'm afraid. Good night,
Albert, and thank you ever and ever so much for listenin' so long
without once tellin' me to mind my own business.”
“Good night, Rachel. . . . And thank you for taking so much interest in
my affairs. You're an awfully good friend, I can see that.”
“Don't--don't talk that way. And you WILL have that talk with your
grandpa?”
“Yes, I will.”
“Oh, I'm SO glad! There! Good night. I come pretty nigh kissin' you
then and for a woman that's been engaged to be married for upwards of
eighteen years that's a nice way to act, ain't it! Good night, good
night.”
She hurried out of the room. Albert sat down again in his chair by the
window. He had promised to go to his grandfather and talk to him. As he
sat there, thinking of the coming interview, he realized more and more
that the keeping of that promise was likely to be no easy matter. He
must begin the talk, he must break the ice--and how should he break
it? Timid and roundabout approaches would be of little use; unless his
grandfather's state of mind had changed remarkably since their
parting in the Z. Snow and Co. office they and their motive would be
misunderstood. No, the only way to break the ice was to break it, to
plunge immediately into the deepest part of the subject. It promised to
be a chilly plunge. He shivered at the prospect.
A half hour later he heard the door of the hall open and shut and knew
that Captain Zelotes had returned. Rising, he descended the stairs.
He descended slowly. Just as he reached the foot of the narrow flight
Captain Zelotes entered the hall from the dining-room and turned toward
him. Both were surprised at the meeting. Albert spoke first.
“Good evening, Grandfather,” he stammered. “I--I was just coming down to
see you. Were you going to bed?”
Captain Lote shook his head. “No-o,” he said, slowly, “not exactly.”
“Do you mind waiting a minute? I have a few things--I have something to
say to you and--and I guess I shall sleep better if I say it to-night.
I--I won't keep you long.”
The captain regarded him intently for an instant, then he turned and led
the way to the dining-room.
“Go ahead,” he ordered, laconically. Albert squared his shoulders,
preparatory to the plunge.
“Grandfather,” he began, “first of all I want to tell you I am sorry
for--for some of the things I said this afternoon.”
He had rehearsed this opening speech over and over again, but in spite
of the rehearsals it was dreadfully hard to make. If his grandfather
had helped him even a little it might have been easier, but the captain
merely stood there, expressionless, saying nothing, waiting for him to
continue.
Albert swallowed, clenched his fists, and took a new start.
“Of course,” he began, “I am sorry for the mistakes I made in my
bookkeeping, but that I have told you before. Now--now I want to say
I am sorry for being so--well, so pig-headed about the rest of it. I
realize that you have been mighty kind to me and that I owe you about
everything that I've got in this world.”
He paused again. It had seemed to him that Captain Zelotes was about to
speak. However, he did not, so the young man stumbled on.
“And--and I realize, too,” he said, “that you have, I guess, been trying
to give me a real start in business, the start you think I ought to
have.”
The captain nodded slowly. “That was my idea in startin' you,” he said.
“Yes--and fact that I haven't done more with the chance is because I'm
made that way, I guess. But I do want to--yes, and I MEAN to try to
succeed at writing poetry or stories or plays or something. I like
that and I mean to give it a trial. And so--and so, you see, I've been
thinking our talk over and I've concluded that perhaps you may be right,
maybe I'm not old enough to know what I really am fitted for, and yet
perhaps _I_ may be partly right, too. I--I've been thinking that perhaps
some sort of--of--”
“Of what?”
“Well, of half-way arrangement--some sort of--of compromise, you know,
might be arranged. I might agree to stay in the office and do my very
best with bookkeeping and business for--well, say, three years or so.
During that time I should be trying to write of course, but I would
only do that sort of writing evenings or on Saturdays and holidays. It
shouldn't interfere with your work nor be done in the time you pay me
for. And at the end of the three or four years--”
He paused again. This time the pause was longer than ever. Captain
Lote broke the silence. His big right hand had wandered upward and was
tugging at his beard.
“Well? . . . And then?” he asked.
“Why, then--if--if--Well, then we could see. If business seemed to be
where I was most likely to succeed we'd call it settled and I would stay
with Z. Snow and Co. If poetry-making or--or--literature seemed more
likely to be the job I was fitted for, that would be the job I'd take.
You--you see, don't you, Grandfather?”
The captain's beard-pulling continued. He was no longer looking his
grandson straight in the eye. His gaze was fixed upon the braided mat at
his feet and he answered without looking up.
“Ye-es,” he drawled, “I cal'late I see. Well, was that all you had to
say?”
“No-o, not quite. I--I wanted to say that which ever way it turned
out, I--I hoped we--you and I, you know--would agree to be--to be
good-natured about it and--and friends just the same. I--I--Well, there!
That's all, I guess. I haven't put it very well, I'm afraid, but--but
what do you think about it, Grandfather?”
And now Captain Zelotes did look up. The old twinkle was in his eye. His
first remark was a question and that question was rather surprising.
“Al,” he asked, “Al, who's been talkin' to you?”
The blood rushed to his grandson's face. “Talking to me?” he stammered.
“Why--why, what do you mean?”
“I mean just that. You didn't think out this scheme all by yourself.
Somebody's been talkin' to you and puttin' you up to it. Haven't they?”
“Why--why, Grandfather, I--”
“Haven't they?”
“Why--Well, yes, someone has been talking to me, but the whole idea
isn't theirs. I WAS sorry for speaking to you as I did and sorry to
think of leaving you and grandmother. I--I was sitting up there in my
room and feeling blue and mean enough and--and--”
“And then Rachel came aboard and gave you your sailin' orders; eh?”
Albert gasped. “For heaven's sake how did you know that?” he demanded.
“She--Why, she must have told you, after all! But she said--”
“Hold on, boy, hold on!” Captain Lote chuckled quietly. “No,” he said,
“Rachel didn't tell me; I guessed she was the one. And it didn't take
a Solomon in all his glory to guess it, neither. Labe Keeler's been
talkin' to ME, and when you come down here and began proposin' the same
scheme that I was just about headin' up to your room with to propose
to you, then--well, then the average whole-witted person wouldn't need
more'n one guess. It couldn't be Labe, 'cause he'd been whisperin' in MY
ear, so it must have been the other partner in the firm. That's all the
miracle there is to it.”
Albert's brain struggled with the situation. “I see,” he said, after a
moment. “She hinted that someone had been talking to you along the same
line. Yes, and she was so sure you would agree. I might have known it
was Laban.”
“Um-hm, so you might. . . . Well, there have been times when if a man
had talked to me as Labe did to-night I'd have knocked him down, or told
him to go to--um--well, the tropics--told him to mind his own business,
at least. But Labe is Labe, and besides MY conscience was plaguin' me a
little mite, maybe . . . maybe.”
The young man shook his head. “They must have talked it over, those two,
and agreed that one should talk to you and the other to me. By George, I
wonder they had the nerve. It wasn't their business, really.”
“Not a darn bit.”
“Yet--yet I--I'm awfully glad she said it to me. I--I needed it, I
guess.”
“Maybe you did, son. . . . And--humph--well, maybe I needed it, too.
. . . Yes, I know that's consider'ble for me to say,” he added dryly.
Albert was still thinking of Laban and Rachel.
“They're queer people,” he mused. “When I first met them I thought
they were about the funniest pair I ever saw. But--but now I can't
help liking them and--and--Say, Grandfather, they must think a lot of
your--of our family.”
“Cal'late they do, son. . . . Well, boy, we've had our sermon, you and
me, what shall we do? Willin' to sign for the five years trial cruise if
I will, are you?”
Albert couldn't help smiling. “It was three years Rachel proposed, not
five,” he said.
“Was, eh? Suppose we split the difference and make it four? Willin' to
try that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Agreement bein' that you shall stick close to Z. Snow and Co. durin'
work hours and write as much poetry as you darned please other times,
neither side to interfere with those arrangements? That right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good! Shall we shake hands on it?”
They shook, solemnly. Captain Lote was the first to speak after
ratification of the contract.
“There, now I cal'late I'll go aloft and turn in,” he observed. Then he
added, with a little hesitation, “Say, Al, maybe we'd better not trouble
your grandma about all this fool business--the row this afternoon
and all. 'Twould only worry her and--” he paused, looked embarrassed,
cleared his throat, and said, “to tell you the truth, I'm kind of
ashamed of my part---er--er--that is, some of it.”
His grandson was very much astonished. It was not often that Captain
Zelotes Snow admitted having been in the wrong. He blurted out the
question he had been dying to ask.
“Grandfather,” he queried, “had you--did you really mean what you
said about starting to come to my room and--and propose this scheme of
ours--I mean of Rachel's and Labe's--to me?”
“Eh? . . . Ye-es--yes. I was on my way up there when I met you just
now.”
“Well, Grandfather, I--I--”
“That's all right, boy, that's all right. Don't let's talk any more
about it.”
“We won't. And--and--But, Grandfather, I just want you to know that I
guess I understand things a little better than I did, and--and when my
father--”
The captain's heavy hand descended upon his shoulder.
“Heave short, Al!” he commanded. “I've been doin' consider'ble thinkin'
since Labe finished his--er--discourse and pronounced the benediction,
and I've come to a pretty definite conclusion on one matter. I've
concluded that you and I had better cut out all the bygones from this
new arrangement of ours. We won't have fathers or--or--elopements--or
past-and-done-with disapp'intments in it. This new deal--this four year
trial v'yage of ours--will be just for Albert Speranza and Zelotes Snow,
and no others need apply. . . . Eh? . . . Well, good night, Al.”