My section's a
long one, too."
"Say, you ain't a road-worker, are you?" he asked eagerly.
"Yes," said I, with a sudden inspiration, "that's exactly what I
am--a road-worker."
"Put her there, then, partner," he said, with a broad smile on
his bronzed face.
He and I struck hands, rested on our shovels (like old hands at
it), and looked with understanding into each other's eyes. We
both knew the trade and the tricks of the trade; all bars were
down between us. The fact is, we had both seen and profited by
the peculiar signs at the roadside.
"Where's your section?" he asked easily.
"Well," I responded after considering the question, "I have a
very long and hard section. It begins at a place called Prosy
Common--do you know it?--and reaches to the top of Clear Hill.
There are several bad spots on the way, I can tell you."
"Don't know it," said the husky road-worker; "'tain't round here,
is it? In the town of Sheldon, maybe?"
Just at this moment, perhaps fortunately, for there is nothing so
difficult to satisfy as the appetite of people for specific
information, a motor-car whizzed past, the driver holding up his
hand in greeting, and the road-worker and I responding in
accordance with the etiquette of the Great Road.
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