It was not an attractive or nicely furnished room.  All one side of it was occupied by the lathe, bench, and tools; and on this side the boards of the floor, with a carpet rolled back, were covered with wood shavings.

“There, take off your wraps and be seated, Mr. Dale.  I’ll sort my rubbish.  Stuffy night, isn’t it?”

Dale noticed that there was no bookcase, and he could not detect more than six books anywhere lying about.  Perhaps there were some in the chiffonier.  He would have expected to find quite a little library at a house tenanted by this sort of man.

“What do you think of that?” And Mr. Osborn handed him the small round box which he had been turning.  “I amuse myself so.  It’s my hobby.”

“You don’t feel the want to read of an evening?”

“No, I’m not a book-worm.  But one has to do something; so I took up this.  If folk chaff me”—­and Mr. Osborn smiled and nodded his head—­“well, I tell them that infinitely better people than I have done carpentering in their time.  Of course they don’t always follow the allusion.”

Dale himself did not follow it.  He understood that this was light and airy conversation provided by Mr. Osborn for the amiable purpose of putting him at his ease.  He had taken off the slouch hat and loose coat that had made him look like some rough shepherd or herdsman; and now, as he sat stiffly on a chair, showing his jacket, breeches, and gaiters, he looked like a farmer who had come to buy or to sell stock.  His manner was altogether businesslike when, after clearing his throat, he explained the actual reason of the visit.  If it would not be troubling Mr. Osborn too much, he desired to obtain information about Baptist tenets, adult baptism, total immersion, and so on.  Mr. Osborn, declaring that it was no trouble, and in an equally businesslike manner, gave him the information.

“Is there anything else I can tell you?”

“I am afraid of putting you out.”

“Not in the least.”

“Well, then, if you’re sure I don’t trespass—­Mr. Osborn, the kind way you’re receiving me makes me venturesome.  I see an ash-tray over there, proving you sometimes favor the weed.  Would you mind if I took a whiff of tobacco—­a pipe?”

“Why, surely not.”

“You won’t join me?”

“No, thanks.  But I’ll tell you what I will do;” and Mr. Osborn emitted a chuckle.  “I’ll go on with my boxes, if you’ll allow me.”

“I should greatly prefer it.”

“You know, I can listen just as well, while I’m fiddling away at my nonsense.”

“I find,” said Dale, as he filled his pipe, “that I rely on smoking more and more.  Seems with me to steady the nerves and clear the brain.  I know there are others that it just fuddles.”

“Exactly.”

Mr. Osborn had gone back to the lathe, and the pleasantly soothing whir of the wheels was heard again, while a fountain of the finest possible shavings began to spin in the air.  For a few moments Dale watched him at his work.  His gray hair flopped about queerly; he made rapid precise movements; and he talked as though he still had his eyes on one, although his back was turned.