A red-haired girl thrust her flaming head in the door.
“Mike Sweeney’s come for them calfskins and they ain’t all bundled yet,” she whined.
“You tell Mike Sweeney to go to hell!” roared Caleb. “And if you interrupt me again with calfskins I’ll kill the both o’ ye and fire you beside!”
The girl closed the door. Caleb swore volubly for a half-moment about the deficiencies of certain hirelings “these days” in the matter of mental endowment. Then he begged:
“Go on, bub! Tell me what you was sayin’ about that poetry.”
“Let’s get a pencil and paper,” Nathan suggested. “We’ll work it out together.”
VI
It was dark outside and the tannery had long been deserted when a pathetically pleased old war-horse of business and an addle-pated young poet ended the new version of Caleb Gridley’s youthful sentiment.
“Now read it all over, out loud,” ordered the tanner. He paced up and down with his dented, dusty, greenish derby on the back of his head, cant-hook thumbs in the armpits of his vest. Nat read:
“GRACIA