That's business. When you've got people's
attention, you can settle down and make your bargains. Mind you,"
says Craney, turning on me an eye that was cold and calm--"mind you,
I don't say that's what I'm going to do, nor I don't say what I'm
calculating to trade for. Maybe I have an idea, and maybe I haven't."
I says, "Course you have."
"You think so?" he says. "It's no more than reasonable. But look at
all this now"--with one thumb in the armhole of his vest and waving
his cigar with the other hand toward the moon and sea--"look at this
here hemisphere. It's big and still. The kinks and creases of me are
smoothing out. I'm expanding, permeating. I look out. I see those
there shining waves. I says to myself, 'J. R., as a romantic man, you
may be said to be getting there.'"
He used to read some in the daytime, but mostly he'd smoke
and meditate and pull his chin beard, sitting on deck in a red
plush-covered easy-chair, with his feet on the rail. One time he
had a volume of poetry in his hand, turning over the leaves.
"Some of it appears to be sawed down smooth one side," he says, "and
left ragged on the other, and some of it's ragged both sides.
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