The Friendly Road [29]
"Almost everything," said he, "depends on depth. If you get a good solid foundation, the' ain't anything that can break up your road."
"Exactly what I have discovered," I responded. "Get down to bedrock and do an honest job of building."
"And don't have too many sharp turns."
"No," said I, "long, leisurely curves are best--all through life. You have observed that nearly all the accidents on the road are due to sharp turnings."
"Right you are!" he exclaimed.
"A man who tries to turn too sharply on his way nearly always skids."
"Or else turns turtle in the ditch."
But it was not until we reached the subject of oiling that we mounted to the real summit of enthusiastic agreement. Of all things on the road, or above the road, or in the waters under the road, there is nothing that the road-worker dislikes more than oil.
"It's all right," said he, "to use oil for surfacin' and to keep down the dust. You don't need much and it ain't messy. But sometimes when you see oil pumped on a road, you know that either the contractor has been jobbin', or else the road's worn out and ought to be rebuilt."
"That's exactly what I've found," said I. "Let a road become almost impassable with ruts and rocks and dust, and immediately some man says, 'Oh, it's all right--put on a little oil--'"
"That's what our supervisor is always sayin'," said the road-worker.
"Yes," I responded, "it usually is the supervisor. He lives by it. He wants to smooth over the defects, he wants to lay the dust that every passerby kicks up, he tries to smear over the truth regarding conditions with messy and ill-smelling oil. Above everything, he doesn't want the road dug up and rebuilt--says it will interfere with traffic, injure business, and even set people to talking about changing the route entirely! Oh, haven't I seen it in religion, where they are doing their best to oil up roads that are entirely worn out--and as for politics, is not the cry of the party-roadster and the harmony-oilers abroad in the land?"
In the excited interest with which this idea now bore me along I had entirely forgotten the existence of my companion, and as I now glanced at him I saw him standing with a curious look of astonishment and suspicion on his face. I saw that I had unintentionally gone a little too far. So I said abruptly:
"Partner, let's get a drink. I'm thirsty."
He followed me, I thought a bit reluctantly, to a little brook not far up the road where we had been once before. As we were drinking, silently, I looked at the stout young fellow standing there, and I thought to myself:
What a good, straightforward young fellow he is anyway, and how thoroughly he knows his job. I thought how well he was equipped with unilluminated knowledge, and it came to me whimsically, that here was a fine bit of road-mending for me to do.
Most people have sight, but few have insight; and as I looked into the clear blue eyes of my friend I had a sudden swift inspiration, and before I could repent of it I had said to him in the most serious voice that I could command:
"Friend, I am in reality a spectacle-peddler--"
His glance shifted uncomfortably to my gray bag.
"And I want to sell you a pair of spectacles," I said. "I see that you are nearly blind."
"Me blind!"
It would be utterly impossible to describe the expression on his face. His hand went involuntarily to his eyes, and he glanced quickly, somewhat fearfully, about.
"Yes, nearly blind," said I. "I saw it when I first met you. You don't know it yourself yet, but I can assure you it is a bad case."
I paused, and shook my head slowly. If I had not been so much in earnest, I think I should have been tempted to laugh outright. I had begun my talk with him half jestingly, with the amusing idea of breaking through his shell, but I now found myself tremendously engrossed, and desired nothing in the world (at that moment) so much as to make him see what I saw. I felt as though I held a live human soul in my hand.
"Say, partner," said the road-worker, "are you sure you aren't--"