“Ay, and with more than his pen,” I answered. “I wonder was he ever so truly great, so entirely the man we know and love, as when he inspired the chiefs to make a highway in the wilderness. 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.