“It's time that I was seein' it again then,” said he, making as if to turn back to work, but remaining with a disturbed expression on his countenance.
“The Spectacles I have to sell,” said I, “are powerful magnifiers”—he glanced again at the gray bag. “When you put them on you will see a thousand wonderful things besides the road—”
“Then you ain't road-worker after all!” he said, evidently trying to be bluff and outright with me.
Now your substantial, sober, practical American will stand only about so much verbal foolery; and there is nothing in the world that makes him more uncomfortable—yes, downright mad!—than to feel that he is being played with. I could see that I had nearly reached the limit with him, and that if I held him now it must be by driving the truth straight home. So I stepped over toward him and said very earnestly:
“My friend, don't think I am merely joking you. I was never more in earnest in all my life. When I told you I was a road-worker I meant it, but I had in mind the mending of other kinds of roads than this.”
I laid my hand on his arm, and explained to him as directly and simply as English words could do it, how, when he had spoken of oil for his roads, I thought of another sort of oil for another sort of roads, and when he spoke of curves in his roads I was thinking of curves in the roads I dealt with, and I explained to him what my roads were. I have never seen a man more intensely interested: he neither moved nor took his eyes from my face.
“And when I spoke of selling you a pair of spectacles,” said I, “it was only a way of telling you how much I wanted to make you see my kinds of roads as well as your own.”
I paused, wondering if, after all, he could be made to see. I know now how the surgeon must feel at the crucial moment of his accomplished operation. Will the patient live or die?
The road-worker drew a long breath as he came out from under the anesthetic.
“I guess, partner,” said he, “you're trying to put a stone or two in my ruts!”