"I thank you, and good-night." He strode off, with his bundle and stick; and out in the darkness he cried: "Don't forget my classification of the poets. Wordsworth! Wordsworth! And so, good-night."
The hired man came into the kitchen. "Wan't that the Professor shoutin' out there?" he asked.
"Yes, the poor old man has just come home, crushed."
"Didn't find no market, then, for his book?"
"No. He brought it back with him. And, by the way, his life insurance will soon be due, and I must pay it for him."
"Don't he owe you for one?"
"That makes no difference. I must help him. The world ought to help him, but he is laughed at by you clods."
"Bill, don't call me a clod. I don't own enough dirt to be called a clod."
"That's all right, Bob. I don't mean you. What day of the month is this?"
"Second, ain't it?"