(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: