Then, stopping and turning upon the boy, he would demand whether or not the writing of such lines wasn’t worth living a life for.
Telfer had a pack of dogs that always went with them on their walks at night and he had for them long Latin names that Sam could never remember. One summer be bought a trotting mare from Lem McCarthy and gave great attention to the colt, which he named Bellamy Boy, trotting him up and down a little driveway by the side of his house for hours at a time and declaring he would be a great trotting horse. He could recite the colt’s pedigree with great gusto and when he had been talking to Sam of some book he would repay the boy’s attention by saying, “You, my boy, are as far superior to the run of boys about town as the colt, Bellamy Boy, is superior to the farm horses that are hitched along Main Street on Saturday afternoons.” And then, with a wave of his hand and a look of much seriousness on his face, he would add, “And for the same reason. You have been, like him, under a master trainer of youth.”
One evening Sam, now grown to man’s stature and full of the awkwardness and self-consciousness of his new growth, was sitting on a cracker barrel at the back of Wildman’s grocery. It was a summer evening and a breeze blew through the open doors swaying the hanging oil lamps that burned and sputtered overhead. As usual he was listening in silence to the talk that went on among the men.
Standing with legs wide apart and from time to time jabbing with his cane at Sam’s legs, John Telfer held forth on the subject of love.
“It is a theme that poets do well to write of,” he declared. “In writing of it they avoid the necessity of embracing it. In trying for a well-turned line they forget to look at well-turned ankles. He who sings most passionately of love has been in love the least; he woos the goddess of poesy and only gets into trouble when he, like John Keats, turns to the daughter of a villager and tries to live the lines he has written.”
“Stuff and nonsense,” roared Freedom Smith, who had been sitting tilted far back in a chair with his feet against the cold stove, smoking a short, black pipe, and who now brought his feet down upon the floor with a bang. Admiring Telfer’s flow of words he pretended to be filled with scorn. “The night is too hot for eloquence,” he bellowed. “If you must be eloquent talk of ice cream or mint juleps or recite a verse about the old swimming pool.”
Telfer, wetting his finger, thrust it into the air.
“The wind is in the north-west; the beasts roar; we will have a storm,” he said, winking at Valmore.
Banker Walker came into the store, followed by his daughter. She was a small, dark-skinned girl with black, quick eyes. Seeing Sam sitting with swinging legs upon the cracker barrel she spoke to her father and went out of the store. At the sidewalk she stopped and, turning, made a quick motion with her hand.