Johnathan made an arresting gesture.
“Young man,” he announced hoarsely, “I want to see you.”
The boy was startled by the strange quality of Johnathan’s voice. The father’s face was white and drawn. There were puffy circles beneath his eyes and almost no color in his lips.
“Whatter you want?” demanded the boy sullenly.
“It’s time that you and I had a talk, young fellow. You’re approaching man’s estate. It’s time that you and I had a talk.”
V
They went into the parlor and sat down in the dark. Nathan was first puzzled, then alarmed. As the time passed and his father sat silent, an ominous silhouette opposite in the dark, that alarm increased to panic. Finally Johnathan cleared his throat.
“I just met Caleb Gridley up the street a pace,” he announced. “We had a talk—him and me. We talked about you—and your poetry.”
“Mr. Gridley?”
“Yes, Mr. Gridley! You’ve been coming along, Nathaniel. You’ve been coming along so fast I’ve hardly noticed. But to-night you’ve had a thing printed in the paper that’s brought me to my senses. You’re getting too big to thrash. So I’ve concluded to talk with you, I say. It’s time we got this poetry business straight. I’m responsible to God for your soul and this poetry business brings home how much. How old are you, Nathan?”