“You earn it, Cap’n. You have to work hard enough on somethin’ all the time, fussin’ or worryin’. I wish the men only had somethin’ to occupy their time.”
“‘Twould be a good idea if they would jest till up their spare minutes,” remarked the keeper, as he drank with avidity his coffee.
“A readin’ somethin’, you know; and it wouldn’t hurt ’em to be a–studyin’.”
“I know it. I wish our superintendent at Washington would send us two or three—four or five nice new books every winter for our lib’ry. Congress, of course, must give him the money.”
“Why, Cap’n, I’ve let your cup be empty! Jest let me fill it up smokin’ hot.”
“Charlie, you know jest where a man feels tender. You ought to run a beach hotel.”
“I am a–doin’ it now, Cap’n. Ha–ha! There, take another biscuit, a hot one. I do wish the men would be improvin’ their minds. Everybody can do somethin’. One winter I was at Duxton, the young people there had a little society, to write on subjects, you know. Fact is, people can improve themselves if they want ter.”
The keeper made no reply, not even saying, “A–hem!” He continued to eat in silence. Charlie eyed him sharply.
“Hullo! He’s got an idea! That’s the way he allers does when an idea strikes him. He says nothin’ and eats faster and faster, as if an idea on four legs, its mouth open, was after him. Hold on!” thought the cook.
Soon came a communication from the silent eater. He looked up, and then slammed his hands on the table.