Just as I reached the spot, the younger of the two threw down his axe.
"So long, Dad! now I'll go into the shop and tend to those letters."
I stood in the presence of the great Roderick Spalton himself, the man
who, in his _Brief Visits to the Homes of Famous Folk_, had written more
meatily and wisely than any American author since Emerson ... the man
whose magazine called _The Dawn_, had rendered him an object of almost
religious veneration and worship to thousands of Americans whose spirits
reached for something more than the mere piling of dollars one on the
other....
I stood before him, visibly overwhelmed. It was evident that my silent
hero-worship was sweet to him. He bespoke me gently and courteously.
"So you want to become an Eoite?"
"Yes," I whispered, bending my gaze humbly before his.
"And what is your name, my dear boy."
"John Gregory, Master!"
"What have you brought with you? where is your baggage?"
"I--I lost my baggage ... all I have with me is a-a r-razor."
He leaned his head back and laughed joyously. His lambent brown eyes
glowed with humour. I liked the man.
"Yes, we'll give you a job--Razorre!" he assured me, calling me by the
nickname which clung to me during my stay....
"Take that axe and show me what you can do."
I caught up the axe and fell to with enthusiasm. The gospel of the
dignity and worth of labour that he preached thrilled in me.
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