The Friendly Road [51]
his countenance--gave him an indescribably droll appearance.
"A fox!" I thought.
Then I looked at him more closely.
"No," said I, "an owl, an owl!"
The stranger stepped out into the road and evidently awaited my approach. My first vivid impression of his face--I remember it afterward shining with a strange inward illumination--was not favourable. It was a deep-lined, scarred, worn-looking face, insignificant if not indeed ugly in its features, and yet, even at the first glance, revealing something inexplainable--incalculable--
"Good day, friend," I said heartily.
Without replying to my greeting, he asked:
"Is this the road to Kilburn?"--with a faint flavour of foreignness in his words.
"I think it is," I replied, and I noticed as he lifted his hand to thank me that one finger was missing and that the hand itself was cruelly twisted and scarred.
The stranger instantly set off up the Road without giving me much more attention than he would have given any other signpost. I stood a moment looking after him--the wings of his overcoat beating about his legs and the small furry ears on his cap wagging gently.
"There," said I aloud, "is a man who is actually going somewhere."
So many men in this world are going nowhere in particular that when one comes along--even though he be amusing and insignificant--who is really (and passionately) going somewhere, what a stir he communicates to a dull world! We catch sparks of electricity from the very friction of his passage.
It was so with this odd stranger. Though at one moment I could not help smiling at him, at the next I was following him.
"It may be," said I to myself, "that this is really the sign man!"
I felt like Captain Kidd under full sail to capture a treasure ship; and as I approached I was much agitated as to the best method of grappling and boarding. I finally decided, being a lover of bold methods, to let go my largest gun first--for moral effect.
"So," said I, as I ran alongside,--"you are the man who puts up the signs."
He stopped and looked at me.
"What signs?"
"Why the sign 'Rest' along this road."
He paused for some seconds with a perplexed expression on his face.
"Then you are not the sign man?" I said.
"No," he replied, "I ain't any sign man."
I was not a little disappointed, but having made my attack, I determined to see if there was any treasure aboard--which, I suppose, should be the procedure of any well-regulated pirate.
"I'm going this way myself," I said, "and if you have no objections--"
He stood looking at me curiously, indeed suspiciously, through his round spectacles.
"Have you got the passport?" he asked finally.
"The passport!" I exclaimed, mystified in my turn.
"Yes," said he, "the passport. Let me see your hand."
When I held out my hand he looked at it closely for a moment, and then took it with a quick warm pressure in one of his, and gave it a little shake, in a way not quite American.
"You are one of us," said he, "you work."
I thought at first that it was a bit of pleasantry, and I was about to return it in kind when I saw plainly in his face a look of solemn intent.
"So," he said, "we shall travel like comrades."
He thrust his scarred hand through my arm, and we walked up the road side by side, his bulging pockets beating first against his legs and then against mine, quite impartially.
"I think," said the stranger, "that we shall be arrested at Kilburn."
"We shall!" I exclaimed with something, I admit, of a shock.
"Yes," he said, "but it is all in the day's work."
"How is that?"
He stopped in the road and faced me. Throwing back his overcoat he pointed to a small red button on his coat lapel.
"They don't want me in Kilburn," said he, "the mill men are strikin' there, and the bosses have got armed men on every corner. Oh, the capitalists are watchin' for me, all right."
I cannot convey the strange excitement I felt. It seemed as though these words suddenly opened a whole new world around me--a world I had heard about for years, but never
"A fox!" I thought.
Then I looked at him more closely.
"No," said I, "an owl, an owl!"
The stranger stepped out into the road and evidently awaited my approach. My first vivid impression of his face--I remember it afterward shining with a strange inward illumination--was not favourable. It was a deep-lined, scarred, worn-looking face, insignificant if not indeed ugly in its features, and yet, even at the first glance, revealing something inexplainable--incalculable--
"Good day, friend," I said heartily.
Without replying to my greeting, he asked:
"Is this the road to Kilburn?"--with a faint flavour of foreignness in his words.
"I think it is," I replied, and I noticed as he lifted his hand to thank me that one finger was missing and that the hand itself was cruelly twisted and scarred.
The stranger instantly set off up the Road without giving me much more attention than he would have given any other signpost. I stood a moment looking after him--the wings of his overcoat beating about his legs and the small furry ears on his cap wagging gently.
"There," said I aloud, "is a man who is actually going somewhere."
So many men in this world are going nowhere in particular that when one comes along--even though he be amusing and insignificant--who is really (and passionately) going somewhere, what a stir he communicates to a dull world! We catch sparks of electricity from the very friction of his passage.
It was so with this odd stranger. Though at one moment I could not help smiling at him, at the next I was following him.
"It may be," said I to myself, "that this is really the sign man!"
I felt like Captain Kidd under full sail to capture a treasure ship; and as I approached I was much agitated as to the best method of grappling and boarding. I finally decided, being a lover of bold methods, to let go my largest gun first--for moral effect.
"So," said I, as I ran alongside,--"you are the man who puts up the signs."
He stopped and looked at me.
"What signs?"
"Why the sign 'Rest' along this road."
He paused for some seconds with a perplexed expression on his face.
"Then you are not the sign man?" I said.
"No," he replied, "I ain't any sign man."
I was not a little disappointed, but having made my attack, I determined to see if there was any treasure aboard--which, I suppose, should be the procedure of any well-regulated pirate.
"I'm going this way myself," I said, "and if you have no objections--"
He stood looking at me curiously, indeed suspiciously, through his round spectacles.
"Have you got the passport?" he asked finally.
"The passport!" I exclaimed, mystified in my turn.
"Yes," said he, "the passport. Let me see your hand."
When I held out my hand he looked at it closely for a moment, and then took it with a quick warm pressure in one of his, and gave it a little shake, in a way not quite American.
"You are one of us," said he, "you work."
I thought at first that it was a bit of pleasantry, and I was about to return it in kind when I saw plainly in his face a look of solemn intent.
"So," he said, "we shall travel like comrades."
He thrust his scarred hand through my arm, and we walked up the road side by side, his bulging pockets beating first against his legs and then against mine, quite impartially.
"I think," said the stranger, "that we shall be arrested at Kilburn."
"We shall!" I exclaimed with something, I admit, of a shock.
"Yes," he said, "but it is all in the day's work."
"How is that?"
He stopped in the road and faced me. Throwing back his overcoat he pointed to a small red button on his coat lapel.
"They don't want me in Kilburn," said he, "the mill men are strikin' there, and the bosses have got armed men on every corner. Oh, the capitalists are watchin' for me, all right."
I cannot convey the strange excitement I felt. It seemed as though these words suddenly opened a whole new world around me--a world I had heard about for years, but never