“I'd promise if I was you, Is,” he said. “You're some subject to rheumatism, you know.”
Issachar, sitting in a spreading puddle, looked damply upward at the remaining bucket. “By crimustee—” he began. Albert drew the bucket backward; the water dripped from its lower brim.
“I—I—darn ye, I promise!” shouted Issachar. Albert put down the bucket and walked back to his desk. Laban watched him curiously, smiling just a little. Then he turned to Mr. Price, who was scrambling to his feet.
“Better get your mop and swab up here, Is,” he said. “Cap'n Lote'll be in 'most any minute.”
When Captain Zelotes did return to the office, Issachar was industriously sweeping out, Albert was hard at work at the books, and Laban was still rubbing his chin and smiling at nothing in particular.
The next day Albert and Issachar made it up. Albert apologized.
“I'm sorry, Issy,” he said. “I shouldn't have done it, but you made me mad. I have a—rather mean temper, I'm afraid. Forgive me, will you?”
He held out his hand, and Issachar, after a momentary hesitation, took it.
“I forgive you this time, Al,” he said solemnly, “but don't never do nothin' like it again, will ye? When I went home for dinner yesterday noon I give you my word my clothes was kind of dampish even then. If it hadn't been nice warm sunshine and I was out doors and dried off considerable I'd a had to change everything, underclothes and all, and 'tain't but the middle of the week yet.”
His ducking had an effect which Albert noticed with considerable satisfaction—he was never quite as flippantly personal in his comments concerning the assistant bookkeeper. He treated the latter, if not with respect, at least with something distantly akin to it.