“How long do you guarantee the typometer for?”
“For a year.”
“We stake out ours for two,—go you one better,—but it’s all rot. You can’t guarantee nothin’ in this world; I know that isn’t grammar, but it kinder seems to mean more’n if ’twas. You can’t guarantee nothin’, not unless you could have the making of the raw material, and then you couldn’t. And you can’t guarantee your workmen, especially when you have to keep changing; I reckon human imperfection’s got to step in somewhere. Talk of skilled labor! That’s what takes the blood out of a man, the everlasting wrench of trying to get ‘skilled labor’ that is skilled. Some of it is so loose-jawed it can’t even chew straight.”
“You’re a pessimist,” said Justin, smiling.
The other broke into a responsive grin.
“Yes, I reckon that’s so; but I don’t even guarantee to be that, steady. Sometimes I get kinder mushy and pleasant, and think the world ain’t a closed-up oyster,—Shakespeare,—but just nice soft cream-cheese that’s ready to be spooned up when you want it. Those are the sort of spells a man’s got to look out for, or he’s likely to find himself up against the rocks, without even an oyster-shell in sight.”
“That’s a bad position,” said Justin, and Cater nodded confirmatively. After a moment he said:
“Well, I’ll guarantee that; I’ve been there.” As he was going, he asked: “How’s Miss Dosia? Pretty well shook up, I suppose.”
“Oh, she’s all right now,” said Justin. “She’s been resting for a couple of days. You must come and see her; she will be glad to see a face from home.”
“I reckon I’ll wait awhile,” said Cater, “till a face from home’s more of a novelty. She ain’t hankering for a sight of mine now.” And, indeed, Dosia, on being informed of the prospect, showed no great enthusiasm. Balderville and the people there were so far away in the past that she had lost connection with them.