Lewis: I remember him. We had a talk. But what he found queer, I think, was not my opinions, but my lack of them. In half an hour he had settled everything: boll weevils, God, the World War. Weevils and wars are the pests that God sends against the sinful. People are too weak to correct themselves: the Redeemer is coming back. Get ready, ye sinners, for the advent of Our Lord. Interesting, eh, Kabnis? but not exactly what we want. Halsey: Y could have come t me. I’ve sho been after y enough. Most every time I’ve seen y. Kabnis (sarcastically): Hows it y never came t us professors? Lewis: I did—to one. Kabnis: Y mean t say y got somethin from that celluloid-collar-eraser-cleaned old codger over in th mud hole? Halsey: Rough on th old boy, aint he? (Laughs.) Lewis: Something, yes. Layman here could have given me quite a deal, but the incentive to his keeping quiet is so much greater than anything I could have offered him to open up, that I crossed him off my mind. And you— Kabnis: What about me? Halsey: Tell him, Lewis, for godsake tell him. I’ve told him. But its somethin else he wants so bad I’ve heard him downstairs mumblin with th old man. Lewis: The old man? Kabnis: What about me? Come on now, you know so much. Halsey: Tell him, Lewis. Tell it t him. Lewis: Life has already told him more than he is capable of knowing. It has given him in excess of what he can receive. I have been offered. Stuff in his stomach curdled, and he vomited me. Kabnis’ face twitches. His body writhes. Kabnis: You know a lot, you do. How about Halsey? Lewis: Yes... Halsey? Fits here. Belongs here. An artist in your way, arent you, Halsey? Halsey: Reckon I am, Lewis. Give me th work and fair pay an I aint askin nothin better. Went over-seas an saw France; an I come back. Been up North; an I come back. Went t school; but there aint no books whats got th feel t them of them there tools. Nassur. An I’m atellin y. A shriveled, bony white man passes the window and enters the shop. He carries a broken hatchet-handle and the severed head. He speaks with a flat, drawn voice to Halsey, who comes forward to meet him. Mr. Ramsay: Can y fix this fer me, Halsey? Halsey (looking it over): Reckon so, Mr. Ramsay. Here, Kabnis. A little practice fer y. Halsey directs Kabnis, showing him how to place the handle in the vise, and cut it down. The knife hangs. Kabnis thinks that it must be dull. He jerks it hard. The tool goes deep and shaves too much off. Mr. Ramsay smiles brokenly at him. Mr. Ramsay (to Halsey): Still breakin in the new hand, eh, Halsey? Seems like a likely enough faller once he gets th hang of it.