"I am glad," I said to myself, "that I am a Member. 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.