While dressing in the cold light of dawn his perturbations of the previous night appeared in retrospect as rather boyish and unnecessary.His sudden and unexpected meeting with Helen and their talk together had tended to make him over-sentimental, that was all.He and she were to be friends, of course, but there was no real danger of his allowing himself to think of her except as a friend.No, indeed.He opened the bureau drawer in search of a tie, and there was the package of "snapshots" just where he had tossed them that night when he first returned home after muster-out.Helen's photograph was the uppermost.He looked at it--looked at it for several minutes.Then he closed the drawer again and hurriedly finished his dressing.A part, at least, of his resolve of the night before had been sound common-sense.His brain was suffering from lack of exercise.Work was what he needed, hard work.
So to work he went without delay.A place to work in was the first consideration.He suggested the garret, but his grandmother and Rachel held up their hands and lifted their voices in protest.
"No, INDEED," declared Olive."Zelotes has always talked about writin' folks and poets starvin' in garrets.If you went up attic to work he'd be teasin' me from mornin' to night.Besides, you'd freeze up there, if the smell of moth-balls didn't choke you first.
No, you wait; I've got a notion.There's that old table desk of Zelotes' in the settin' room.He don't hardly ever use it nowadays.You take it upstairs to your own room and work in there.
You can have the oil-heater to keep you warm."So that was the arrangement made, and in his own room Albert sat down at the battered old desk, which had been not only his grandfather's but his great-grandfather's property, to concentrate upon the first of the series of stories ordered by the New York magazine.He had already decided upon the general scheme for the series.A boy, ragamuffin son of immigrant parents, rising, after a wrong start, by sheer grit and natural shrewdness and ability, step by step to competence and success, winning a place in and the respect of a community.There was nothing new in the idea itself.
Some things his soldier chum Mike Kelley had told him concerning an uncle of his--Mike's--suggested it.The novelty he hoped might come from the incidents, the various problems faced by his hero, the solution of each being a step upward in the latter's career and in the formation of his character.He wanted to write, if he could, the story of the building of one more worth-while American, for Albert Speranza, like so many others set to thinking by the war and the war experiences, was realizing strongly that the gabbling of a formula and the swearing of an oath of naturalization did not necessarily make an American.There were too many eager to take that oath with tongue in cheek and knife in sleeve.Too many, for the first time in their lives breathing and speaking as free men, thanks to the protection of Columbia's arm, yet planning to stab their protectress in the back.
So Albert's hero was to be an American, an American to whom the term meant the highest and the best.If he had hunted a lifetime for something to please and interest his grandfather he could not have hit the mark nearer the center.Cap'n Lote, of course, pretended a certain measure of indifference, but that was for Olive and Rachel's benefit.It would never do for the scoffer to become a convert openly and at once.The feminine members of the household clamored each evening to have the author read aloud his day's installment.The captain sniffed.
"Oh, dear, dear," with a groan, "now I've got to hear all that made-up stuff that happened to a parcel of made-up folks that never lived and never will.Waste of time, waste of time.Where's my Transcript?"But it was noticed--and commented upon, you may be sure--by his wife and housekeeper that the Transcript was likely to be, before the reading had progressed far, either in the captain's lap or on the floor.And when the discussion following the reading was under way Captain Zelotes' opinions were expressed quite as freely as any one's else.Laban Keeler got into the habit of dropping in to listen.
One fateful evening the reading was interrupted by the arrival of Mr.Kendall.The reverend gentleman had come to make a pastoral call.Albert's hero was in the middle of a situation.The old clergyman insisted upon the continuation of the reading.It was continued and so was the discussion following it; in fact, the discussion seemed likely to go on indefinitely, for the visitor showed no inclination of leaving.At ten-thirty his daughter appeared to inquire about him and to escort him home.Then he went, but under protest.Albert walked to the parsonage with them.
"Now we've started somethin'," groaned the captain, as the door closed."That old critter'll be cruisin' over here six nights out of five from now on to tell Al just how to spin those yarns of his.
And he'll talk--and talk--and talk.Ain't it astonishin' how such a feeble-lookin' craft as he is can keep blowin' off steam that way and still be able to navigate."His wife took him to task."The idea," she protested, "of your callin' your own minister a 'critter'! I should think you'd be ashamed....But, oh, dear, I'm afraid he WILL be over here an awful lot."Her fears were realized.Mr.Kendall, although not on hand "six nights out of five," as the captain prophesied, was a frequent visitor at the Snow place.As Albert's story-writing progressed the discussions concerning the growth and development of the hero's character became more and more involved and spirited.They were for the most part confined, when the minister was present, to him and Mrs.Snow and Rachel.Laban, if he happened to be there, sat well back in the corner, saying little except when appealed to, and then answering with one of his dry, characteristic observations.
