"I guess they will have to stand it," replied Lemuel.
The minister heaved a sigh of hopeless perplexity. "What do you
propose to do, then? You can't remain here without means. Do you
expect to sell your poetry?" he asked, goaded to the question by a
conscience peculiarly sore on that point.
It made Lemuel blush. "No, I don't expect to sell it, now. They took
it out of my pocket on the Common."
"I am glad of that," said the minister as simply, "and I feel bound
to warn you solemnly, that there is absolutely _no_ hope for
you in that direction."
Lemuel said nothing.
The minister stood baffled again. After a bad moment he asked, "Have
you anything particular in view?"
"I don't know as I have."
"How long can you remain here?"
"I don't know exactly."
Sewell turned and followed the manager into the refrigerator room,
where he had remained patiently whistling throughout this interview.
When he came back, Lemuel had carried one trayful of bowls upstairs,
and returned for another load, which he was piling carefully up for
safe transportation.
"The manager tells me," said Sewell, "that practically you can stay
here as long as you like, if you work, but he doesn't think it
desirable you should remain, nor do I. But I wish to find you here
again, when I come back. I have something in view for you.
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