As he arranged his books just so, he cleared his throat.
“Now, Peter, we want to get down to this,” he announced dynamically; “do this thing, shove this work out!” He started with tottery briskness around to his manuscript drawer, but veered off to the left to aline some magazines. “System, Peter, system. Without system one may well be hopeless of performing any great literary labor; but with system, the constant piling up of brick on brick, stone on stone—it's the way Rome was built, my boy.”
Peter made a murmur supposed to acknowledge the correctness of this view.
Eventually the old Captain drew out his drawer of manuscript, stood fumbling with it uncertainly. Now and then he glanced at Peter, a genuine secretary who stood ready to help him in his undertaking. The old gentleman picked up some sheets of his manuscript, seemed about to read them aloud, but after a moment shook his head, and said, “No, we'll do that to-night,” and restored them to their places. Finally he turned to his helper.
“Now, Peter,” he explained, “in doing this work, I always write at night. It's quieter then,—less distraction. My mornings I spend downtown in conversation with my friends. If you should need me, Peter, you can walk down and find me in front of the livery-stable. I sit there for a while each morning.”
