Part 5

“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.”