“Hold on a minute. You don't know, eh? Well, I know. It ain't because you ain't smart enough to keep a set of books and keep 'em well. I don't expect you to be a Labe Keeler; there ain't many bookkeepers like him on this earth. But I do know you're smart enough to keep my books and keep 'em as they'd ought to be, if you want to keep 'em. The trouble with you is that you don't want to. You've got too much of your good-for-nothin--” Captain Lote pulled up short, cleared his throat, and went on: “You've got too much 'poet' in you,” he declared, “that's what's the matter.” Albert leaned forward. “That wasn't what you were going to say,” he said quickly. “You were going to say that I had too much of my father in me.” 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.