He would sit in his office as
foreman, read the New York _Herald_, and suck at an unlit cigar, telling
anyone who listened how he would be quite happy to retire and run a
little chicken farm somewhere the rest of his life.
The men all liked him ... gave him a present every Christmas ... but
they never jumped up and lit into their work, when they saw him coming,
as they did for the other bosses. And the management, knowing his
easiness, never paid him over twenty or twenty-five dollars a week. But
whenever I could cozen an extra dollar out of him, alleging extra school
expenses, I would do so. It meant that I could buy some more books of
poetry.
* * * * *
I was sent from the stable out into the fields to work ... harder and
more back-breaking than currying horses. But my labour was alleviated by
the fact that a little renegade ex-priest from Italy worked by my
side,--and while we weeded beets or onions, or hoed potatoes, he taught
me how to make Latin a living language by conversing in it with me.
* * * * *
There were no women on the hill but the professors' wives, and they were
an unattractive lot. We were as exempt from feminine influence as a
gathering of monks--excepting when permission was given any of us to go
over to Fairfield, where, besides the native New England population of
women and girls, was situated the girls' branch of our educational
establishment.
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