“No; I’d put the mule in that one. Then he’d be farther away from our quarters. I’d knock down the second shed, the one where the roof is half gone. Found a name yet fur your mule?”
“I’ve named him ‘Alchemist.’”
“‘Alchymist’? Don’t that mean turnin’ no ’count things inter gold?”
“Yes.”
“Well, that’s ’propriate; ’cause he’ll work the ’rastra. Then, we kin call him ‘Alchy’ till we know the result; and if we don’t get anythin’ worth mentionin’ out of it we kin call him ‘Missed.’ That’ll be ’propriate, too.”
“‘Alchy’ goes, then. And here’s to be his home. I think I’ll leave one window for his professorship. We’ll separate his apartments from ours.” He struck the dilapidated shed a blow as he spoke.
“’Twill be more ’ristocratic,” observed Mundon. “S’pose I start the ’rastra while you’re doin’ that?”
“Wish you would. Everything seems unimportant—where we sleep or where the mule sleeps—compared to the real business.”
“A man’s got to be comfortable, or he can’t do good work. This here’s the best place for the ’rastra.” He took several long steps across a spot in the center of the floor. “I’ll level this off a little, so to have the floor of it even.”