I understood what was in his mind when a little farther along we met two young Portuguese fishermen. They were Joseph and Manuel Fayal. He had known them ever since the days when they used to go past our place dragging their puppy in a rusty tin pan tied to a string, and using such shocking language that I was forbidden to play with them. They are big, handsome men now, with black mustaches and such a flashing of white teeth and black eyes when they smile that the sudden illumination of their faces makes me think of a lightning-bug.
They flashed that kind of a smile at Father, when he stopped to shake hands with them, plainly flattered at his remembering their names. I could see them eyeing his uniform admiringly, and they seemed much impressed when he said, "We need you in the navy, boys," and went on in his grave way to put the situation before them in a few forceful sentences.
He was that way all the time he was at home. It made no difference where we went or what we were doing, he couldn't shake off the horror of things he had seen, and the knowledge that they were still going on. Several times he said he felt he oughtn't to be taking even a week's rest. It was like taking a vacation from fighting mad dogs. Every moment should be spent in beating them off.
It worried Barby dreadfully to see him in such a state. She's afraid he'll break down under the strain. He's promised her that when the war is over he'll ask for a year's leave.
Father has been gone two weeks. It was hard to see him go this time, so much harder than usual, that I am glad to have my days filled up with work as well as play. Down at the office I'm so busy there isn't time to remember things that hurt. This arrangement isn't half as bad as it sounded at first. In fact, it isn't at all bad, and there's lots about it that I enjoy immensely.
For one thing I go only in the mornings. The stenographer is a nice Boston girl who gives me lessons in shorthand in between times when she isn't busy, and I'm getting a lot by myself, just out of a text book. I can already run the typewriter, and I certainly bless Tippy these days for giving me such a thorough training in spelling. Old Mr. Carver is a darling. He likes taking me around inside the business and showing me how the wheels go round. It may sound disrespectful, to say it gives him a chance to show off, but I don't mean it that way.
I'm learning all about the weirs and the fisheries connected with the Plant, and where our markets are, and what makes the prices go up and down, and where we buy chemicals to freeze with and what companies we're insured with and all that sort of thing. It's amazing to discover how many things one has to know—banking and payrolls and shipping and important clauses in contracts. I never before realized how pitifully ignorant I am and what a world full of things there is to learn outside of the school room.
One of his ways of testing how much I have learned about shipments and prices and things, is to hand me a letter to answer, just for practice, not to send away. I've always been told that I write such good letters that I was awfully mortified over the way that he smiled at my first attempt. I had prided myself on its being quite a literary production. But I caught on right away what he meant, when he told me in his whimsical fashion that "frills are out of place in a business letter. They must be severely plain and tailor-made." Then he gave me a sample and after that it was easy enough. I've answered three "according to my lights," as he puts it, that were satisfactory enough to send, without any dictation from him.