Captain Zelotes looked at him. “Resigned?” he repeated. “What do you mean by resigned? Not to sit around and whimper is one thing—any decent man or woman ought to be able to do that in these days; but if by bein' resigned you mean I'm contented to have it so—well, you're mistaken, that's all.”
Only on one occasion, and then to Laban Keeler, did he open his shell sufficiently to give a glimpse of what was inside. Laban entered the inner office that morning to find his employer sitting in the desk chair, both hands jammed in his trousers' pockets and his gaze fixed, apparently, upon the row of pigeon-holes. When the bookkeeper spoke to him he seemed to wake from a dream, for he started and looked up.
“Cap'n Lote,” began Keeler, “I'm sorry to bother you, but that last carload of pine was—”
Captain Zelotes waved his hand, brushing the carload of pine out of the conversation.
“Labe,” he said, slowly, “did it seem to you that I was too hard on him?”
Laban did not understand. “Hard on him?” he repeated. “I don't know's I just get—”
“Hard on Al. Did it seem to you as if I was a little too much of the bucko mate to the boy? Did I drive him too hard? Was I unreasonable?”
The answer was prompt. “No, Cap'n Lote,” replied Keeler.
“You mean that? . . . Um-hm. . . . Well, sometimes seems as if I might have been. You see, Labe, when he first come I—Well, I cal'late I was consider'ble prejudiced against him. Account of his father, you understand.”
“Sartin. Sure. I understand.”