Surely
no more fitting monument could exist to his memory than the Road of
Gratitude, cut, laid, and kept by the pure-blooded tribe kings of
Samoa."
Parson nodded.
"He knew that the people who make no roads are ruled out from
intelligent participation in the world's brotherhood." He filled
his pipe, thinking the while, then he held out his pouch to me.
"Try some of this baccy," he said; "Sherwood of Magdalen sent it me
from some outlandish place."
I accepted gratefully. It was such tobacco as falls to the lot of
few roadmenders.
He rose to go.
"I wish I could come and break stones," he said, a little
wistfully.
"Nay," said I, "few men have such weary roadmending as yours, and
perhaps you need my road less than most men, and less than most
parsons."
We shook hands, and he went down the road and out of my life.
He little guessed that I knew Sherwood, ay, and knew him too, for
had not Sherwood told me of the man he delighted to honour.
Ah, well! I am no Browning Junior, and Sherwood's name is not
Sherwood.
CHAPTER VI
A while ago I took a holiday; mouched, played truant from my road.
Jem the waggoner hailed me as he passed--he was going to the mill--
would I ride with him and come back atop of the full sacks?
I hid my hammer in the hedge, climbed into the great waggon white
and fragrant with the clean sweet meal, and flung myself down on
the empty flour bags. The looped-back tarpaulin framed the long
vista of my road with the downs beyond; and I lay in the cool dark,
caressed by the fresh breeze in its thoroughfare, soothed by the
strong monotonous tramp of the great grey team and the music of the
jangling harness.
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