“Sartin. DO you give me one? I ask you to keep these books of mine. You could keep 'em A Number One. You're smart enough to do it. But you won't. You let 'em go to thunder and waste your time makin' up fool poetry and such stuff.”
“But I like writing, and I don't like keeping books.”
“Keepin' books is a part of l'arnin' the business, and business is the way you're goin' to get your livin' by and by.”
“No, it isn't. I am going to be a writer.”
“Now DON'T say that silly thing again! I don't want to hear it.”
“I shall say it because it is true.”
“Look here, boy: When I tell you or anybody else in this office to do or not to do a thing, I expect 'em to obey orders. And I tell you not to talk any more of that foolishness about bein' a writer. D'you understand?”
“Yes, of course I understand.”
“All right, then, that much is settled. . . . Here! Where are you goin'?”
Albert had turned and was on his way out of the office. He stopped and answered over his shoulder, “I'm going home,” he said.