“That’s why you haven’t wasted any time learning Five Hundred and things, isn’t it? Because you’ve been so busy reading and so on?”
“Yes, kind of.” Mr. Wrenn looked modest.
“Haven’t you always been lots of—oh, haven’t you always ’magined lots?”
She really seemed to care.
Mr. Wrenn felt excitedly sure of that, and imparted: “Yes, I guess I have…. And I’ve always wanted to travel a lot.”
“So have I! Isn’t it wonderful to go around and see new places!”
“Yes, isn’t it!” he breathed. “It was great to be in England—though the people there are kind of chilly some ways. Even when I’m on a wharf here in New York I feel just like I was off in China or somewheres. I’d like to see China. And India…. Gee! when I hear the waves down at Coney Island or some place—you know how the waves sound when they come in. Well, sometimes I almost feel like they was talking to a guy—you know—telling about ships. And, oh say, you know the whitecaps—aren’t they just like the waves was motioning at you—they want you to come and beat it with you—over to China and places.”
“Why, Mr. Wrenn, you’re a regular poet!”
He looked doubtful.
“Honest; I’m not teasing you; you are a poet. And I think it’s fine that Mr. Teddem was saying that nobody could be a poet or like that unless they drank an awful lot and—uh—oh, not be honest and be on a job. But you aren’t like that. Are you?”