Nathan stood in awe of old Gridley, partly because he was the boy’s employer, mostly because he was her father.
“Yeah,” affirmed Caleb, “what was it?”
“It was—it was—poetry,” the lad confessed lamely. He wished he could get a drink, any kind of water if only it would keep the office from spinning around and around.
“So you’re a poet?”
“I like to read poetry and try writing it—sometimes.”
“So I heard. I’m a bit of a poet myself!”
For an instant Nathan was dumbfounded. Had he heard aright? The boy fought off his vertigo and stared. Was the old man jesting? But apparently Old Caleb was never more serious in his life. Moreover, he too was confused, as though chagrined by the confession. Nathan would have accepted that his employer had speared grizzlies, kicked over baby carriages, fired orphan asylums and kicked the crutches from cripples. But a poet! It was cataclysmic.
“Did you—did you—ever write any poetry?”
“Once!”
“What for? What came of it?”