Adventures in Friendship. Ray Stannard Baker

I am sure the Masons have no such benefits to offer in their lodges as we have in ours. And we do not require money of farmers (who have little to pay). We will accept corn, or hen's eggs, or a sandwich at the door, and as for a cheerful glance of the eye, it is for us the best of minted coin."

      (Item: to remember. When a man asks money for any good thing, beware of it. You can get a better for nothing.)

      I cannot undertake to tell where the amusing reflections which grew out of my idea would finally have led me if I had not been interrupted. Just as I approached the Patterson farm, near the bridge which crosses the creek, I saw a loaded wagon standing on the slope of the hill ahead. The horses seemed to have been unhooked, for the tongue was down, and a man was on his knees between the front wheels.

      Involuntarily I said:

      "Another member of my society: and in distress!"

      I had a heart at that moment for anything. I felt like some old neighbourly Knight travelling the earth in search of adventure. If there had been a distressed mistress handy at that moment, I feel quite certain I could have died for her—if absolutely necessary.

      As I drove alongside, the stocky, stout lad of a farmer in his brown duck coat lined with sheep's wool, came up from between the wheels. His cap was awry, his trousers were muddy at the knees where he had knelt in the moist road, and his face was red and angry.

      A true knight, I thought to myself, looks not to the beauty of his lady, but only to her distress.

      "What's the matter, Brother?" I asked in the friendliest manner.

      "Bolt gone," he said gruffly, "and I got to get to town before nightfall."

      "Get in," I said, "and we'll drive back. We shall see it in the road."

      So he got in. I drove the mare slowly up the hill and we both leaned out and looked. And presently there in the road the bolt lay. My farmer got out and picked it up.

      "It's all right," he said. "I was afraid it was clean busted. I'm obliged to you for the lift."

      "Hold on," I said, "get in, I'll take you back."

      "Oh, I can walk."

      "But I can drive you faster," I said, "and you've got to get the load to town before nightfall."

      I could not let him go without taking tribute. No matter what the story books say, I am firmly of the opinion that no gentle knight (who was human) ever parted with the fair lady whose misery he had relieved without exchanging the time of day, or offering her a bun from his dinner pail, or finding out (for instance) if she were maid or married.

      My farmer laughed and got in.

      "You see," I said, "when a member of my society is in distress I always like to help him out."

      He paused; I watched him gradually evolve his reply:

      "How did you know I was a Mason?"

      "Well, I wasn't sure."

      "I only joined last winter," he said. "I like it first-rate. When you're a Mason you find friends everywhere."

      I had some excellent remarks that I could have made at this point, but the distance was short and bolts were irresistibly uppermost. After helping him to put in the bolt, I said:

      "Here's the grip of fellowship."

      He returned it with a will, but afterward he said doubtfully.

      "I didn't feel the grip."

      "Didn't you?" I asked. "Well, Brother, it was all there."

      "If ever I can do anything for you," he said, "just you let me know. Name's Forbes, Spring Brook."

      And so he drove away.

      "A real Mason," I said to myself, "could not have had any better advantage of his society at this moment than I. I walked right into it without a grip or a pass. And benefits have also been distributed."

      As I drove onward I felt as though anything might happen to me before I got home. I know now exactly how all old knights, all voyageurs, all crusaders, all poets in new places, must have felt! I looked out at every turn of the road; and, finally, after I had grown almost discouraged of encountering further adventure I saw a man walking in the road ahead of me. He was much bent over, and carried on his back a bag.

      When he heard me coming he stepped out of the road and stood silent, saving every unnecessary motion, as a weary man will. He neither looked around nor spoke, but waited for me to go by. He was weary past expectation. I stopped the mare.

      "Get in, Brother," I said; "I am going your way."

      He looked at me doubtfully; then, as I moved to one side, he let his bag roll off his back into his arms. I could see the swollen veins of his neck; his face had the drawn look of the man who bears burdens.

      "Pretty heavy for your buggy," he remarked.

      "Heavier for you," I replied.

      So he put the bag in the back of my buggy and stepped in beside me diffidently.

      "Pull up the lap robe," I said, "and be comfortable."

      "Well, sir, I'm glad of a lift," he remarked. "A bag of seed wheat is about all a man wants to carry for four miles."

      "Aren't you the man who has taken the old Rucker farm?" I asked.

      "I'm that man."

      "I've been intending to drop in and see you," I said.

      "Have you?" he asked eagerly.

      "Yes," I said. "I live just across the hills from you, and I had a notion that we ought to be neighbourly—seeing that we belong to the same society."

      His face, which had worn a look of set discouragement (he didn't know beforehand what the Rucker place was like!), had brightened up, but when I spoke of the society it clouded again.

      "You must be mistaken," he said. "I'm not a Mason!"

      "No more am I," I said.

      "Nor an Oddfellow."

      "Nor I."

      As I looked at the man I seemed to know all about him. Some people come to us like that, all at once, opening out to some unsuspected key. His face bore not a few marks of refinement, though work and discouragement had done their best to obliterate them; his nose was thin and high, his eye was blue, too blue, and his chin somehow did not go with the Rucker farm. I knew! A man who in his time had seen many an open door, but who had found them all closed when he attempted to enter! If any one ever needed the benefits of my fraternity, he was that man.

      "What Society did you think I belonged to?" he asked.

      "Well," I said, "when I was in town a man who wanted to sell me a corn-planter asked me if I was a Mason----"

      "Did he ask you that, too?" interrupted my companion.

      "He did," I said. "He did----" and I reflected not without enthusiasm that I had come away without a corn-planter. "And when I drove out of town I was feeling rather depressed because I wasn't a member of the lodge."

      "Were you?" exclaimed my companion. "So was I. I just felt as though I had about reached the last ditch. I haven't any money to pay into lodges and it don't seems if a man could get acquainted and friendly without."

      "Farming is rather lonely work sometimes, isn't it?" I observed.

      "You bet it is," he responded. "You've been there yourself, haven't you?"

      There may be such a thing as the friendship of prosperity; but surely it cannot be compared with the friendship of adversity. Men, stooping, come close together.

      "But when I got to thinking it over," I said, "it suddenly occurred to me that I belonged to the greatest of all fraternities. And I recognized you instantly as a charter member."

      He looked around at me expectantly, half laughing. I don't suppose he had so far forgotten his miseries for many a day.