He was
content to fall behind in the classics, for they were easy, and in
them his arrears gave him no terror. Walking for exercise, he laid
the plan of his tale and had written some bits of verse. Of an
evening he went often to the Sign of the Dial, and there read his
lines and got friendly but severe criticism. He came into the shop
one evening, his "Horace" under his arm.
"'_Maecenas, atavis, edite regibus_'" Trove chanted, pausing to
recall the lines.
The tinker turned quickly. "'_O et presidium et duice decus
meum_,'" he quoted, never stopping until he had finished She ode.
"Is there anything you do not know?" Trove inquired.
"Much," said the tinker, "including the depth o' me own folly. A
man that displays knowledge hath need o' more."
Indeed, Trove rarely came for a talk with Darrel when he failed to
discover something new in him--a further reach of thought and
sympathy or some unsuspected treasure of knowledge. The tinker
loved a laugh and would often search his memory for some phrase of
bard or philosopher apt enough to provoke it. Of his great store
of knowledge he made no vainer use.
Trove had been overworking; and about the middle of June they went
for a week in the woods together.
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