His tone made it clear that he was talking about more than engineering.
"Shall we go now, Lucy? Here's my card, Halvorsen. Send those dolphins along and I'll mail you a check."
IV
The artist walked the half-dozen blocks to Mr. Krehbeil's place the next day. He found the old man in the basement shop of his fussy house, hunched over his bench with a powerful light overhead. He was trying to file a saw.
"Mr. Krehbeil!" Halvorsen called over the shriek of metal.
The carpenter turned around and peered with watery eyes. "I can't see like I used to," he said querulously. "I go over the same teeth on this damn saw, I skip teeth, I can't see the light shine off it when I got one set. The glare." He banged down his three-cornered file petulantly. "Well, what can I do for you?"
"I need some crating stock. Anything. I'll trade you a couple of my maple four-by-fours."
The old face became cunning. "And will you set my saw? My saws, I mean. It's nothing to you—an hour's work. You have the eyes."
Halvorsen said bitterly, "All right." The old man had to drive his bargain, even though he might never use his saws again. And then the artist promptly repented of his bitterness, offering up a quick prayer that his own failure to conform didn't make him as much of a nuisance to the world as Krehbeil was.