“I have three halfpence,” said the gardener, but not hopefully.
“Come in for the night,” begged the host. “I have twelve bedrooms for you to sleep in, and three bathrooms tiled in red. Terms a halfpenny, tout compris.”
“Tra-la-la ...” trilled the gardener, for as he followed his host the heather tingled and tossed beneath his feet, and the gods came out to meet him with a red welcome.
“You have nothing to do—what?” said Mr. Samuel Rust, when they were sitting in the high russet hall.
“We-ll ...” answered the gardener, feeling that the suggestion of failure lurked there. “I am a rover, you know. Busy roving.”
“To say that shows you haven’t roved sixty miles yet. When you’ve roved six hundred you’ll see there’s nothing to be got out of roving. When you’ve roved six thousand you’ll join the Travellers’ Club and be glad it’s all over.”
“Six thousand miles ...” said the gardener, as if it were a prayer. His heart looked and leapt towards the long, crowded perspective that those words hinted.
“You’ve never been to sea,” continued Mr. Samuel. And the gardener discovered with a jerk that he was a blue man born for the sea, and that he had never yet felt the swing of blue water beneath his feet.
“No,” he said, “I believe I must go there now.”
And he jumped to his feet.