Osborn emitted
a chuckle. "I'll go on with my boxes, if you'll allow me."
"I should greatly prefer it."
"You know, I can listen just as well, while I'm fiddling away at my
nonsense."
"I find," said Dale, as he filled his pipe, "that I rely on smoking
more and more. Seems with me to steady the nerves and clear the brain.
I know there are others that it just fuddles."
"Exactly."
Mr. Osborn had gone back to the lathe, and the pleasantly soothing
whir of the wheels was heard again, while a fountain of the finest
possible shavings began to spin in the air. For a few moments Dale
watched him at his work. His gray hair flopped about queerly; he made
rapid precise movements; and he talked as though he still had his eyes
on one, although his back was turned.
"There are matches at your elbow, Mr. Dale--on that shelf--beside the
flower-pot."
"Thanks, Mr. Osborn."
He wore a loose blue flannel coat, and Dale wondered if this was a
garment that he had bought years ago to play cricket in. Perhaps he
had belonged to a University. It was quite clear that he must have had
an extremely lib'ral education to start with. And Dale thought again
what he had thought just now in the porch--that one ought to be
precious careful in dealing with a man of such natural and acquired
powers.
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