of it, at that; and many a child and adult quickly found ways of profitably passing odd hours.
Naturally Old Bill Simpkins was snooping around, sniffing and snorting at any signs of making Branton Hills “look cityish,” (a word originating in Bill’s vocabulary.)
“Huh!! I didn’t put in any foolish hours with books in my happy childhood in this good old town! But I got along all right; and am now having my say in its Town Hall doings. Books!! Pooh! Maps! BAH!! It’s silly to squat in a hot room squinting at a lot of print! If you want to know about a thing, go to work in a shop or factory of that kind, and find out about it first-hand.”
“But, Bill,” said Gadsby, “shops want a man who knows what to do without having to stop to train him.”
“Oh, that’s all bosh! If a boss shows a man what a tool is for; and if that man is any good, at all, why bring up this stuff you call training? That man grabs a tool, works ’til noon; knocks off for an hour; works ’til”
At this point in Bill’s blow-up an Italian Councilman was passing, and put in his oar, with:—
“Ha, Bill! You thinka your man can worka all right, firsta day, huh? You talka crazy so much as a fool! I laugha tinkin’ of you startin’ on a patcha
[ 27 ]
