“Well, of half-way arrangement—some sort of—of compromise, you know, might be arranged. I might agree to stay in the office and do my very best with bookkeeping and business for—well, say, three years or so. During that time I should be trying to write of course, but I would only do that sort of writing evenings or on Saturdays and holidays. It shouldn't interfere with your work nor be done in the time you pay me for. And at the end of the three or four years—”
He paused again. This time the pause was longer than ever. Captain Lote broke the silence. His big right hand had wandered upward and was tugging at his beard.
“Well? . . . And then?” he asked.
“Why, then—if—if—Well, then we could see. If business seemed to be where I was most likely to succeed we'd call it settled and I would stay with Z. Snow and Co. If poetry-making or—or—literature seemed more likely to be the job I was fitted for, that would be the job I'd take. You—you see, don't you, Grandfather?”
The captain's beard-pulling continued. He was no longer looking his grandson straight in the eye. His gaze was fixed upon the braided mat at his feet and he answered without looking up.
“Ye-es,” he drawled, “I cal'late I see. Well, was that all you had to say?”
“No-o, not quite. I—I wanted to say that which ever way it turned out, I—I hoped we—you and I, you know—would agree to be—to be good-natured about it and—and friends just the same. I—I—Well, there! That's all, I guess. I haven't put it very well, I'm afraid, but—but what do you think about it, Grandfather?”
And now Captain Zelotes did look up. The old twinkle was in his eye. His first remark was a question and that question was rather surprising.
“Al,” he asked, “Al, who's been talkin' to you?”
The blood rushed to his grandson's face. “Talking to me?” he stammered. “Why—why, what do you mean?”