“I'm through. I'll never work in this office another day. I'm through.”
The captain's brows drew together as he stared steadily at his grandson. He slowly tugged at his beard.
“Humph!” he grunted, after a moment. “So you're through, eh? Goin' to quit and go somewheres else, you mean?”
“Yes.”
“Um-hm. I see. Where are you goin' to go?”
“I don't know. But I'm not going to make a fool of myself at this job any longer. I can't keep books, and I won't keep them. I hate business. I'm no good at it. And I won't stay here.”
“I see. I see. Well, if you won't keep on in business, what will you do for a livin'? Write poetry?”
“Perhaps.”
“Um-m. Be kind of slim livin', won't it? You've been writin' poetry for about a year and a half, as I recollect, and so far you've made ten dollars.”
“That's all right. If I don't make it I may starve, as you are always saying that writers do. But, starve or not, I shan't ask YOU to take care of me.”