Kermode had little trouble with his work, which he found profitable, and he rapidly made friends. Among them was a young Presbyterian missionary whom he met for the first time on the hillside, engaged on a squared log with a big jack-plane. He wore knee-boots and a threadbare suit of gray, while his hat had suffered from exposure to the weather. Kermode stopped his team near-by and the clergyman looked around.
“If you have a good eye, you might tell me whether this chamfer’s running true,” he said.
“You want a bit off here.” Kermode laid his finger on the spot. “Except for that, it’s good.”
The clergyman sat down and pulled out a tobacco pouch.
“I’ll attend to it presently, but I feel I’m entitled to a rest. Take a smoke; you’re not paid on time.”
“I’m not sure it would matter if I were.” Kermode’s eyes twinkled as he filled his pipe. “An idea of the kind you suggested doesn’t go far in a construction camp, unless, of course, a foreman happens to be about. However, you made one rash statement, didn’t you?”
“I’m afraid I make a good many,” replied the clergyman good-humoredly. “But you are right. It would be very rash to claim all that one was entitled to; in other words, one’s deserts. You’re Mr. Kermode, I believe; you must know my name is Ferguson.”
Kermode bowed.
“What are you going to do with this log?” he asked.
“It’s to be a door-post in the new church. I wonder if you would be willing to haul it in?”