I was really curious to know more of him, so I said
finally:
"See here, Mr. Canfield, it's just noon. Why not sit down here
with me and have a bit of luncheon?"
"Why not?" he responded with alacrity. "As the fellow said, why
not?"
He unhitched his horse, gave him a drink from the brook, and then
tethered him where he could nip the roadside grass. I opened my
bag and explored the wonders of Mrs. Stanley's luncheon. I cannot
describe the absolutely carefree feeling I had. Always at home,
when I would have liked to stop at the roadside with a stranger,
I felt the nudge of a conscience troubled with cows and corn, but
here I could stop where I liked, or go on when I liked, and talk
with whom I pleased, as long as I pleased.
So we sat there, the brush-peddler and I, under the trees, and
ate Mrs. Stanley's fine luncheon, drank the clear water from the
brook, and talked great talk. Compared with Mr. Canfield I was a
babe at wandering--and equally at talking. Was there any business
he had not been in, or any place in the country he had not
visited? He had sold everything from fly-paper to
threshing-machines, he had picked up a large working knowledge of
the weaknesses of human nature, and had arrived at the age of
sixty-six with just enough available cash to pay the manufacturer
for a new supply of brushes.
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