2
Luke bicycled from home to business every morning, and from business to home every evening. He enjoyed this immensely. Every morning as he rode off he said to himself: “Further from Mabel. Further and further from Mabel. Every day, in every way, I’m getting further and further.” On his return journey in the evening he experienced the same relief in getting further from old Cain, and further from the office.
At the middle point of his journey it always seemed to him that he did not belong to the office any more, and that he did not belong to Mabel either. He was all his own, in a world by himself. He would go on in a snow-white ecstasy. Then he would get up, dust his clothes, and re-mount.
He had some habits, which, to the stupid and censorious, might almost seem childish. He cut for himself with his little hatchet a number of pegs, and always carried some of them in his pocket. At every point on the road where he fell off, he drove in a peg. It seemed to him a splendid idea. In a wave of enthusiasm he told Mabel all about it.
“Isn’t it absolutely splendid?” he asked.
“Dotty,” said Mabel, briefly.
He went out into the woodshed and cut more pegs.
One Monday morning as he started on his ride he saw before him at intervals all down the road little white specks. Yes, every one of those pegs had been painted white by somebody.
Who could have done it? He decided at once that it must be Mabel. She had repented of her harshness. She had made up her mind to try to enter more into his secret soul. This was her silent way of showing it. He determined that if this were so he would start kissing her again that evening. It overcame him completely. He drove in one more peg, and re-mounted.
“Mabel,” he said that night at dinner, “It’s good and sweet of you to have painted all those pegs white. It must have taken you a long time.”
“Never touched your rotten old pegs,” said Mabel. “Pass the salt.”
His ears twitched.