“Have you written Jerry’s yet?” Richard asked.
“What, man!” Jawn affected great disgust. “Would you write an obituary verse while the corpse is still sitting up and drinking beer with you? Have you no artistic sense? Of course not! Well, then, have you even common decency?”
“Well,” Richard probed him. “I thought as this one was going to be the climax you would take a running start, as it were.”
“Yes!” Jawn was derisive. “I know your sort. You’re the kind who sample all the bottles before the wake begins, and start premature explosions which spoil the solemnity and gaiety of the rest of the mourners. Besides, there ain’t going to be no corpse this time. Ergo, there won’t be no limerick. It’ll be an ode I’ll write, a bursting prothalamium, a lyrical celebration of the joys of requited affection.”
They were now coming in sight of Walter at work.
“No, it won’t,” said Richard. “It will be a limerick like all the others. You are doomed to failure, Jawn; and the reason is that you ply your amours too well. You are a professional. You are too perfect. There’s not a flaw in your attack, and therefore you fail to attract. It’s the perfect manufactured article versus the crude hand-made bit of craftsmanship. No; Jawn, I fear you’ll die a Left-tenant.”
“I fear so,” admitted Jawn cheerfully. “I fear so; and I hope so! Lord love you! My memory is so full of delicious experiences that I’d feel like Bluebeard if I ever settled down to simple domestic servitude. And I wouldn’t like it, I know. Ach! I’d rather be a left-tenant every day in the week than a major-domo for ever.”
While they waited on the dock for Walter to row in with the tender, Richard asked Jawn what he thought of the boy.
“What do I think of him?” Jawn echoed. “Well, to speak in technical language which all the world understands, I think he’s a damned young fool.”
Richard pressed him to look at the case seriously.