At least he
would have carried me along with him in his buggy; but when he
suggested it I felt very much, I think, as some old monk must
have who had taken a vow to do some particular thing in some
particular way. With great difficulty I convinced him finally
that my way was different from his--though he was regally
impartial as to what road he took next--and, finally, with some
reluctance, he started to climb into his buggy.
A thought, however, struck him suddenly, and he stepped down
again, ran around to the box at the back of his buggy, opened it
with a mysterious and smiling look at me, and took out a small
broom-brush with which he instantly began brushing off my coat
and trousers--in the liveliest and most exuberant way. When he
had finished this occupation, he quickly handed the brush to me.
"A token of esteem," he said, "from a fellow traveller."
I tried in vain to thank him, but he held up his hand, scrambled
quickly into his buggy, and was for driving off instantly, but
paused and beckoned me toward him. When I approached the buggy,
he took hold of one the lapels of my coat, bent over, and said
with the utmost seriousness:
"No man ought to take the road without a brush. A good
broom-brush is the world's greatest civilizer.
Pages:
35
36
37
38
39
40
41
42
43
44
45
46
47
48
49
50
51
52
53
54
55
56
57
58
59