“Did ye ever hear o’ Zebulon Pole?” asked the Loafer.
“I never did. But what has he to do with this matter?”
“Zebulon Pole was a livin’ answer to it, he was. He used to have a shanty up in Buzzard Walley near me an’ Pap, an’ was young an’ full o’ all them noble idees. No—he wasn’t allus full of ’em. They hed ben a time ’hen he was easy-goin’ an’ happy, askin’ nawthin’ better o’ his Maker than a trout stream, a hook an’ a line, an’ a place to borry a shot-gun. All o’ a sudden he bloomed out full o’ ambition an’ high notions. He hed a call. He was wastin’ his life loafin’ ’long the creeks or settin’ day after day on a lawg, whistlin’ fer wild turkeys. The world needed Zebulon Pole, an’ he answered by comin’ out ez candidate fer superwisor. He was elected. From that day the citizens o’ our township hed no peace. They’d allus ben used to goin’ out on the roads in the spring, stickin’ their shovels in the groun’, leanin’ on ’em an’ gittin’ paid a dollar a day fer it. The new superwisor was ambitious, an’ the good ole system o’ makin’ roads seemed a thing o’ the past. So the boys put their heads together an’ concided that a man o’ Pole’s parts was too good fer his place an’ should hev a higher an’ nobler job. They made him a school-director, an’ leaned on their shovels oncet more an’ drawed a dollar a day fer it ez usual.
“Zebulon hed never gone beyant the Third Reader in school or th’oo fractions, an’ yit ’hen he become a school-director, he seen the hand o’ a higher power instead o’ the wotes o’ citizens who wasn’t agin improvin’ the roads, but was agin hevin’ it done ’hen they was workin’ out their road tax. He was called to the service o’ his felly-man. He was sacrificin’ his own happiness, givin’ up his fishin’ an’ huntin’ that he might dewote his life to helpin’ others. He hedn’t ben school-director a month tell he concided it was an honor, a great honor, yit the sphwere was too narrer fer a man o’ his talents. Zebulon Pole was learnin’. He’d found out they was better an’ higher things in this worl’ then a mountain stream full o’ trout, a soft bed o’ moss on the bank, a half cloudy day, a pipe an’ a hook an’ line. He’d found out they was nobler things, so he come out ez candidate fer county commissioner, ’lowin’ that after that he’d be Gov’nor, an’ then Presydent. But the woters remembered how they’d over-exerted themselves in his days ez superwisor; they minded how in his first week ez school-director, he’d changed the spellin’ book an’ cost ’em twenty-five cents a head fer every blessed child in the district. They jest snowed him under. He was plain Zeb Pole agin. He’d tasted the sweets o’ power an’ lost his appytite fer fishin’. His hopes o’ bein’ Presydent was gone. They was nawthin’ left fer him to look for’a’d to but dyin’.”
The student shook his head gravely.
“There is some argument in what you have been saying,” he said slowly. “I admit that. But you know your ideas are not new. You simply carry one back to the Stoics of Greece.”
The Loafer was puzzled. “What did you say they was?” he asked.
“The Stoics of Greece. You remind me of the Stoics of Greece.”
“Is that a complyment or a name?” The Loafer leaned sharply forward and thrust his long chin toward the speaker ominously.