“Well, I’ll be in town to-morrer,” he said, drearily.
“Aha,” assented Hardy.
“What ye got there?” inquired Creede, after a long silence. He picked up the book, griming the dainty pages as he turned them with his rough fingers, glancing at the headings.
“Um-huh,” he grunted, “‘Sonnets from the Portegees,’ eh? I never thought them Dagos could write––what I’ve seen of ’em was mostly drivin’ fish-wagons or swampin’ around some slaughterhouse. How does she go, now,” he continued, as 364 his schooling came back to him, “see if I can make sense out of it.” He bent down and mumbled over the first sonnet, spelling out the long words doubtfully.
|
“I thought once how The-o-crite-us had sung Of the sweet years, the dear and wished-for years, Who each one in a gracious hand appears To bear a gift for mortals, old or young: And as I mused it in his an––” |
“Well say, what’s he drivin’ at, anyway?” demanded the rugged cowboy. “Is that Dago talk, or is he jest mixed in his mind? Perfectly clear, eh? Well, maybe so, but I fail to see it. Wish I could git aholt of some good po’try.” He paused, waiting for Hardy to respond.
“Say,” he said, at last, “do me a favor, will ye, Rufe?”
The tone of his voice, now soft and diffident, startled Hardy out of his dream.
“Why sure, Jeff,” he said, “if I can.”
“No, no ‘ifs’ and ‘ands’ about it!” persisted Creede. “A lucky feller like you with everythin’ comin’ his way ought to be able to say ‘Yes’ once in a while without hangin’ a pull-back on it.”