w, 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 r