“Bub, what say you and me be partners—in poetry?”
“Partners—in poetry?”
“I’d like to write more pieces like this, with you, bub. B’dam, I ain’t had such a soul-satisfyin’ afternoon in thirty year! S’pose you quit the yard and come up here and see to things about the office. The brains o’ that redheaded girl rattle round in her head like a peanut in a wash boiler. And now and then we’ll fool with hexy—hexy——”
“Hexameters,” said Nathan gravely.
“Hexy-whatever you-call-’em,” said Caleb.
“You mean you aren’t going to fire me for fighting? You’ll give me a job up here in the office, instead?”
“That’s it, bub. You and me! Cow hides for bread and butter. Poems for dessert. Saturday afternoons and Sundays? What say?—what?”
“Th-Th-Thank you, Mr. Gridley,” was all that Nathan could call up. He felt a sudden grim affection for the old tanner who had been keeping the heart of a poet locked under his tough hide for two or three decades.
“The wages,” said Caleb, “will be two dollars more a week. I guess a poet oughta be worth it. But the real reason for the raise is keepin’ your mouth shut. The minute you go tellin’ what you and me’s mutually interested in—you’re fired!”
“I understand, Mr. Gridley. I’m much obliged.”