Chapter 2

The wayfarer who called himself Farr came down the long hill and turned
the corner of the highway where the alders crowded to the banks of the
narrow brook; they whispered to one another as the breeze fluttered
their leaves. He drank there, bending and scooping the water in his
palm. He bathed the rose and stroked its wilted petals.

“Too bad, little one!” he said. “The long road is a killing proposition,
and I'm afraid I had no business inviting you to go with me. Your sister
must be a long way ahead of us.”

The rocks were cool where the alders cast shade, and he sat there for
a little while, watching the drift of tiny flotsam down the eddying
current and observing the skipper-bugs skating over the still shallows
on their spraddled legs.

There was a pleasant hush all about. The bubbling ecstasy of a bobolink
floated above the grasses of a meadow, and near at hand a wren hopped
about in the alders and chirped dozy notes. Peace and restfulness
brooded. The man at the brook leaned low and thrust his head into the
water and then rose and shook the drops from his thick thatch of brown
hair. He did it with a sort of canine wriggle and smiled at the thought
which came to him.

“A stray dog!” he muttered. “Of as much account--and he'd better forget
the sister of the rose. Here's a good place to put imagination to
sleep--here's a place where all is asleep.”

He went on around the curtain of the alders.

There was a big old-fashioned house near at hand. Its walls were
weather-worn, its yard was not tidy. The faded curtains at the windows
hung crookedly. The glass of the panes was dirty. The entire aspect of
the place indicated that there was no woman's hand to make it home. It
was commonplace and uninteresting.

But the front door was flung open suddenly with a screech of rusty
hinges.

Then came backing out of the doorway a very old man--a bent and
wrinkled old man with long white hair which trailed down from under a
broad-brimmed hat. He was dragging a coffin, single-handed. The free
end of the solemn box bumped down the wooden steps with a hollow clatter
that suggested emptiness. There was a woodpile at one side of the yard.
The old man tugged the casket over the litter of chips and dropped the
end. He wrenched an ax from its cleft in a chopping-block and caved in
the top of the coffin with the first blow.

The man Farr, observing from the road, saw that the casket was empty.
The old man continued to bash and batter.

The wayfarer, before the destruction was begun, had time to note that
the coffin was a remarkably fine specimen of cabinet-maker's work. There
were various sorts of wood inlaid with care, and the fretwork along
its sides had been jig-sawed with much pains spent in detail, and the
pilasters were turned with art. But the old man battered at all this
excellence with savageness. It was evident that he was not merely
providing kindling-wood--he was expending fury.

It was an affair that demanded undivided attention from the observer in
the road; but a man came around the corner of the house just then and
Farr promptly gave over his interest in the aged chopper.

The new arrival was clothed cap-a-pie in armor.

He stood quietly at a little distance and gazed from under his vizor on
the energetic old man at the woodpile.

Farr noted that the armor was obviously home-made. The helmet, though
burnished and adorned with a horse's tail, had the unmistakable outlines
of a copper kettle. The cuirass could not disguise its obligation to
certain parts of an air-tight stove. But the ensemble was peculiarly
striking and the man in the road took a quick glance around at the New
England landscape in order to assure himself that he was still where he
supposed he was.

Farr went to the fence and folded his arms on the top.

The old man, resting a moment, seemed to feel that intent regard from
behind and, without turning his body, hooked his narrow and bony chin
over his shoulder and swapped a long stare with the stranger.

“Well,” inquired the venerable chopper, “what is on thy mind, sir?” His
tone was sour.

“Seeing that the question is direct and remembering that age deserves
the truth, I'll say that I was thinking that this seems to be an ideal
location for a private lunatic-asylum, and that guests are allowed to
enjoy themselves.”

“I will have thee to understand that I have sat for thirty long years at
the head of the Friends' meeting in this town and never has it been said
that my wits are cracked. Furthermore, this is none of thy affair. Move
on.”

Farr merely shifted his feet and took an easier pose at the fence.

“Feeling as I do, it will not trouble me much to come over there and
take a chop or two at thee,” warned the old man.

“I didn't know that Quakers ever allowed their feelings to get so highly
spiced.”

“Along with thee, tramp!”

“You see, my dear sir,” drawled the man in the road, “I am out in search
of peace of mind. If I should go on my way without understanding what
this means my itching curiosity would never allow me another good
night's sleep. A word from you to soothe curiosity, and then I go!”

“Thee has seen me knocking into pieces a coffin. Is there anything
strange in seeing me knock into pieces a coffin I have made with my own
hands?”

“No, sir. That is quite within your rights. But why? From what little I
saw of it it seemed to me to be a mighty fine piece of work.”

“It was,” stated the old man, a bit mollified. “Walnut with bird's-eye
maple inlaid.”

“May I ask if it was made for anybody who died lately?”

“I made it for myself--I have had it by me for twenty years! Seeing that
thee must stick thy nose into my business!” His tone was pettish and
he stooped down and began to toss splinters and broken boards upon the
woodpile.

“Then I suppose it was--er--sort of out of date,” suggested Farr,
blandly.

“I see thee is minded to tease me--the world is full of fools.” He
straightened as best he could, propping hands on his hips, and divided
angry gaze between the man at the fence and the armored figure. “I am
not going to die--I have decided to stay alive. I have a fool on my
hands.”

“Father, I think thee had better choose thy words a bit better in the
presence of a stranger,” advised the man in armor.

“Can't thee see that he is a fool?” demanded the old man.

“I don't think I want to venture an opinion, sir. I'll simply say that
your son's choice of a summer suit seems a little peculiar. But, of
course, every man to his liking!”

The old man walked down to the fence. He was crooked at the waist and
his legs were hooked with the curves of age, but he strode along with
brisk vigor. His gaze was as sharp as a gimlet, though the puckered lids
were cocked over his eyes with the effect of little tents whose flaps
were partly closed. He put his face close to Farr's.

“Thee is as cheeky as a crow and as prying as a magpie and I venture
to say thee is a roving scamp. But I may as well talk to thee as to
anybody.”

With armor rattling and squeaking, the son started toward them.

“I do not care to have thee talk about me, father,” he warned.

Farr noted that the son had eyes as keen and as gray as those of the
elder. The armored citizen was sturdy and of middle age and the face
under the vizor revealed intelligence and self-possession.

The father paid no heed to the son.

“Has thee traveled around the world much?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Thee has met many men?”

“Many and of all sorts and conditions.”

“Then I want to ask thee what thee thinks of the good wit of a man who
declares that he will go forth into the world, faring here and there,
to try to do good to all men, to try to settle the troubles between men,
free of all price?”

Farr turned gaze from the father to the earnest countenance of the son,
and then stared again into the searching eyes of the old man. Prolonged
and embarrassed silence followed.

“Thy looks speak louder than words,” declared the father. “Thy eyes say
it--he is a fool.”

“It may be as well not to say so with thy tongue,” advised the son. “I
might not be as patient with a stranger as I am with my father. He is
wholly practical, without imagination, and so I excuse him.”

“I offer no comments,” said Walker Farr with a frank smile which won an
answering flicker from the face under the vizor. “I do not understand.”

“I would not expect a vagabond to understand anything or to be brave
enough to say what he thinks,” piped the father. He turned on his son.
“Here's a scalawag of a tramp. Go along with him and be another such.”

“I may be a peripatetic philosopher, for all you know,” said Farr,
teasingly. “There are knights in fustian as well as knights in armor.”

“I think thee is of more account than thy clothing indicates,” stated
the son, regarding the stranger keenly. “And thee carries a rose in thy
hand. Little things tell much.”

Farr put the flower into his pocket. “Don't fool yourself about me,” he
said, roughly.

“Thy speech has betrayed thee,” insisted the other.

“I have met crib-crackers who were college men--and pocket dictionaries
are cheap. And so good day to you, gentlemen.”

“Wait one moment!” appealed the man in armor. His face softened when he
approached his father.

“We have talked much and there is no more to say to each other now.
I have served here patiently many years. If I leave thee for a little
while there is old Ben to wait and tend. And I will come back after I
have done my duty.”

“I will stay alive so that I can bail thee out of prison,” his father
informed him, sourly. “Go on, thou fool; learn thy lesson! The world is
all right as it is; it will cuff the ears of meddlers. But go on!”

“I would rather thee would show another spirit at parting--but have it
thy way,” returned the son, with Quaker repression of all emotions. He
came forth from the gate.

“I am going thy road,” he informed Farr, “because all ways are alike to
me. I would be pleased to talk with one who has journeyed. Thee may have
good counsel for me. May I walk with thee?”

The wayfarer opened his mouth and closed it suddenly on a half-spoken
and indignant refusal of this honor. He pursed his lips and his thick
brows drew together in a frown. Then, as if in spite of himself, he
began to smile.

“I will be no burden to thee,” pleaded the home-made knight. “I have had
my armor for a long time and have practised walking in it.”

“But why the tin suit?” expostulated Farr.

“I will explain as we walk.”

“Well, come along!” blurted the wayfarer. “Nothing more can happen to
me, anyway.”

“So thee has found one of thy own kind to follow about in the world?”
inquired the father, tauntingly. “Feathers on the head and rattles in
the hand! Cockahoops and fiddle-de-lorums! Thee'll be back soon with thy
folly cured after I have bailed thee from the calaboose! Then thee'll
stick to thy forge and be sensible!”

Farr noted a small shop by the roadside as they started off.

“My father is a good man, but practical--wholly practical,” said his new
comrade of the ways. “From my good mother I derive imagination. My life
has not been happy here. But work has helped.”

He pointed to the shop. Over the main door a faded, weather-worn sign
advertised “Eastup Chick & Son, Blacksmiths.” On the gable was a newer
sign heralding “Jared Chick & Father, Inventors.”

“I am Jared Chick, my friend.”

He talked slowly, pausing to pick words, phrasing with the carefulness
of the man of method, talking as those persons talk who have read many
books and use their tongue but seldom. Farr found much quaintness in the
solemn man's discourse.

“My father put my name on the sign when I was young, and it pleased me.
I put his name on the other sign when he was old and it did not please
him, though I have insisted that he must share in all credit which comes
to me. But my father does not possess imagination. I am sorry he lost
his temper to-day and broke up his coffin. Not that I approved of having
it in the house all these years, but he was very proud of it. He made
it soon after my mother died. I think, now that he has destroyed it, he
will live many years longer. He is very strong-minded.”

“I'm glad to have my suspicions confirmed,” said Farr.

“He was extremely angry when his eldest brother died at eighty. He
stood over him in the last moments and made us all very uncomfortable
by telling Uncle Joachim that there was no need of his dying--that if he
would only show a little Chick spunk he could stay alive just as well
as not and would not go fushing out just when he was most needed in the
Friends' meeting.”

“Considering that the old fellow was eighty and probably felt like
quitting, seems as if your father was rubbing it in just a little.”

“Perhaps he was a mite harsh, but there is another side of it. There
were only three of us left of the Friends' society to go to the old
meeting-house on First Day so that it might not be said that after one
hundred years we had allowed the society of the fathers to perish in
our town. Thee may have noted that my father and I still use the plain
language, keeping up the ways of the founders. My father sat at the head
of the meeting, my Uncle Joachim was next to him on the facing seat. I
am the only worshiper. I am not fitted to be a minister. My father, when
Joachim died, had no one with whom to exchange the hand-shake at the end
of the meeting.”

“And now he's losing his congregation?”

“Yes, my friend, and so my father blames me for going, just as he blamed
Uncle Joachim for dying. He has the meeting much at heart.”

“What will he do for a crowd after you go away?”

“He will continue to sit at the head of the meeting, sir.”

There was silence between them for some time. The blacksmith clanked on
his way sturdily.

“He will still sit at the head of the meeting! Only a little fire is
left there, sir, but he will not allow it to go out as long as he is
alive to blow the bellows of devotion.”

“Look here, Brother Chick,” demanded Farr. “I don't want to be prying or
impertinent, but what's your idea?”

“I'm not ashamed of anything I'm going to do. Even though it is a very
strange plan, as the world would look at it, I'm not ashamed of it. A
very few words will tell you: I'm going out among men and spread the
gospel of mercy and forbearance, teach the lessons of peace, urge men to
forgive instead of fight--showing them that courts of law are more often
the devil's playground than the abode of real justice. I have worked
hard, I have read many books, I have stored information in my mind, I
have laid up money enough. You behold my armor--I have wrought at it
patiently for a long time.”

“Expect to have 'em throw things at you?”

But the blacksmith, replying, gave no sign that he resented this brusque
humor.

“It is well known that it is hard to attract the attention of the world
from its own affairs. For instance, if I had stood in the yard to-day,
dressed as a plain man, thee would have passed on thy way--providing
father had been chopping up kindling-wood instead of a coffin. If I had
stopped thee and started to explain my views thee would have paid little
attention to me. Isn't that so?”

“It's so.”

“Well, then, thee have my theory and know my plan and have noted how it
has worked,” said Mr. Chick.

“I don't want to discourage you in a good thing, but how long do you
think a policeman would let you stand on a street corner?”

“I shall find places where I can deliver my message without offending.”

“There's another point--a rather delicate point to consider, Brother
Chick. There are plenty of persons who are a bit dull when they are
examining a man's motives, but who think they are almighty smart in
detecting a man's mental failings; when somebody does anything they
wouldn't do they say he's crazy.”

The blacksmith turned his serene face and smiled at Farr.

“I appeal to thy good judgment, sir. Would thee, after talking with me,
even if I do wear iron outside my wool garments, send me to an asylum?”

“No,” acknowledged Farr, “I don't believe I would send you to an
asylum.”

“Thank thee! I believe thee can speak quite generally for the average
man.”

“But the armor scheme--it's a little risky, Friend Chick.”

“But it has been the trade-mark of unselfishness ever since the days of
the Crusaders,” declared Mr. Chick. “Why shouldn't its significance
be revived in these modern times? At any rate,” he added, with Yankee
shrewdness, “it's necessary to give the world quite a jump these days
before it will stop, look, and listen.”

“Some advertising concern will make you an offer that will pull you into
camp your second day out, if you're not careful. You've certainly got a
good idea of the business.”

“I am sincere. I am not trifling. I have pondered on this for a long
time. I shall be misjudged--but I shall not be afraid!”