The Portygee Part 24

It was the captain's turn to redden. "Eh?" he stammered. "Why, I--I--How do you know what I was goin' to say?"

"Because I do. You say it all the time. Or, if you don't say it, you look it. There is hardly a day that I don't catch you looking at me as if you were expecting me to commit murder or do some outrageous thing or other. And I know, too, that it is all because I'm my father's son.

Well, that's all right; feel that way about me if you want to, I can't help it."

"Here, here, Al! Hold on! Don't--"

"I won't hold on. And I tell you this: I hate this work here. You say I don't want to keep books. Well, I don't. I'm sorry I made the errors yesterday and put Keeler to so much trouble, but I'll probably make more. No," with a sudden outburst of determination, "I won't make any more. I won't, because I'm not going to keep books any more. I'm through."

Captain Zelotes leaned back in his chair.

"You're what?" he asked slowly.

"I'm through. I'll never work in this office another day. I'm through."

The captain's brows drew together as he stared steadily at his grandson.

He slowly tugged at his beard.

"Humph!" he grunted, after a moment. "So you're through, eh? Goin' to quit and go somewheres else, you mean?"

"Yes."

"Um-hm. I see. Where are you goin' to go?"

"I don't know. But I'm not going to make a fool of myself at this job any longer. I can't keep books, and I won't keep them. I hate business.

I'm no good at it. And I won't stay here."

"I see. I see. Well, if you won't keep on in business, what will you do for a livin'? Write poetry?"

"Perhaps."

"Um-m. Be kind of slim livin', won't it? You've been writin' poetry for about a year and a half, as I recollect, and so far you've made ten dollars."

"That's all right. If I don't make it I may starve, as you are always saying that writers do. But, starve or not, I shan't ask YOU to take care of me."

"I've taken care of you for three years or so."

"Yes. But you did it because--because--Well, I don't know why you did, exactly, but you won't have to do it any longer. I'm through."

The captain still stared steadily, and what he saw in the dark eyes which flashed defiance back at him seemed to trouble him a little. His tugs at his beard became more strenuous.

"Humph!" he muttered. "Humph! ... Well, Al, of course I can't make you stay by main force. Perhaps I could--you ain't of age yet--but I shan't.

And you want to quit the s.h.i.+p altogether, do you?"

"If you mean this office--yes, I do."

"I see, I see. Want to quit South Harniss and your grandmother--and Rachel--and Labe--and Helen--and all the rest of 'em?"

"Not particularly. But I shall have to, of course."

"Yes... . Um-hm... . Yes. Have you thought how your grandmother's liable to feel when she hears you are goin' to clear out and leave her?"

Albert had not thought in that way, but he did now. His tone was a trifle less combative as he answered.

"She'll be sorry at first, I suppose," he said, "but she'll get over it."

"Um-hm. Maybe she will. You can get over 'most anything in time--'MOST anything. Well, and how about me? How do you think I'll feel?"

Albert's chin lifted. "You!" he exclaimed. "Why, you'll be mighty glad of it."

Captain Zelotes picked up the pencil stump and twirled it in his fingers. "Shall I?" he asked. "You think I will, do you?"

"Of course you will. You don't like me, and never did."

"So I've heard you say. Well, boy, don't you cal'late I like you at least as much as you like me?"

"No. What do you mean? I like you well enough. That is, I should if you gave me half a chance. But you don't do it. You hate me because my father--"

The captain interrupted. His big palm struck the desk.

"DON'T say that again!" he commanded. "Look here, if I hated you do you suppose I'd be talkin' to you like this? If I hated you do you cal'late I'd argue when you gave me notice? Not by a jugful! No man ever came to me and said he was goin' to quit and had me beg him to stay. If we was at sea he stayed until we made port; then he WENT, and he didn't hang around waitin' for a boat to take him ash.o.r.e neither. I don't hate you, son. I'd ask nothin' better than a chance to like you, but you won't give it to me."

Albert's eyes and mouth opened.

"_I_ won't give YOU a chance?" he repeated.

"Sartin. DO you give me one? I ask you to keep these books of mine.

You could keep 'em A Number One. You're smart enough to do it. But you won't. You let 'em go to thunder and waste your time makin' up fool poetry and such stuff."

"But I like writing, and I don't like keeping books."

"Keepin' books is a part of l'arnin' the business, and business is the way you're goin' to get your livin' by and by."

"No, it isn't. I am going to be a writer."

"Now DON'T say that silly thing again! I don't want to hear it."

"I shall say it because it is true."

"Look here, boy: When I tell you or anybody else in this office to do or not to do a thing, I expect 'em to obey orders. And I tell you not to talk any more of that foolishness about bein' a writer. D'you understand?"

"Yes, of course I understand."

"All right, then, that much is settled... . Here! Where are you goin'?"

Albert had turned and was on his way out of the office. He stopped and answered over his shoulder, "I'm going home," he said.

"Goin' HOME? Why, you came from home not more than an hour and a half ago! What are you goin' there again now for?"