“To enjoy many beautiful, moon-lit hours, watching the glint of the phosphorescent waves as they twinkle like fairy lights over the broad expanse of Lake Michigan; to—”
“Look out, Thropper,” I exclaimed at this poetic outburst, “or you’ll be crowding the spring poets out of a job!”
“To roam at will through the shady groves, over the sand dunes, to hear the orchestral music, the light plash of the waves against the pier while you hold a fish-line in the water; to loll on the fragrant pine needles and read, muse, rest, and be inspired: what do you think of that for a program for the next three months, Priddy?”
“Ask a Mohammedan what he thinks of Paradise or an exiled Prince what he thinks of a Kingdom, Thropper?”
“Then,” continued Thropper, “the whole experience not to cost you a cent: rather you are to be paid at the rate of four dollars a week: wages for a treat like that, Priddy: what do you think of that?”
“It is impossible for me to think about such a prospect, Thropper, my imagination is intoxicated!”
“Then you will go!”
I looked at Thropper as if he had parted with his senses.
“What an actor you are, Thropper. One would imagine you serious in all this!”
“Of course I’m serious!” he announced. “I am merely offering you the chance to go with Brook and myself to Macatawa, Michigan, to wait on table at one of the hotels there.”