Shoveling stone is no picnic, as Danny and his fellows would have put it. It is not only the hard, obstructed thrust, thrust of the shovel into the heap of broken stone, and the constant lift and swing of each shovelful into the wagon; it is the slow monotony of repetition of unvarying motion that becomes most irksome to the tyro, and wears down the nervous system of the old hand till his whole being is leveled to the insensibility of a soulless machine. But, though new to the process itself, Maxwell was not ignorant of its effects; and soon he found himself distracting his attention from the strain of the muscular tension by fitting the action to the rhythm of some old sailor's chanteys he had learned at college. The effect amused the men; and then as some of them caught the beat, and others joined in, soon the whole gang was ringing the changes on the simple airs, and found it a rousing and cheerful diversion from the monotony of labor. If a pause came, soon one of them would call out: "Come on, Parson; strike up the hymn." One by one the wagons were loaded, and driven to the road. After they had filled the last wagon, Danny put on his coat, and he and Maxwell mounted and drove out of the yard. "Where are we going with this?" Maxwell inquired. "Down on the state road, first turn to the left." "Why, that must be near Willow Bluff, Mr. Bascom's place, isn't it?" "Right opposite. Bascom, he come out yesterday, and said he wouldn't stand for that steam roller snortin' back and forth in front of his house. But Jim Ferris told him he had his orders from Williamson, and he wasn't goin' to be held up by nobody until Williamson told him to stop. Jim isn't any kind of fool." When they arrived in front of Willow Bluff, they stopped, dismounted, and dumped the crushed stone, and then returned to the stone yard. At noon they camped out on the curb in front of Willow Bluff. After Maxwell had done full justice to the contents of his dinner pail, he stretched himself full length on the grass for a few moments, chatting with his mates in friendly fashion. Then he went over to the roller and assisted the engineer in "oiling up." Being a novice at the business, he managed to get his hands black with oil, and smeared a streak across one cheek, which, while it helped to obscure his identity, did not add to his facial beauty. He was blissfully unconscious of this. About three o'clock Bascom returned from his office, just as Maxwell was dismounting from the wagon after bringing a load. At first Bascom did not recognize the rector, but a second glance brought the awful truth home to his subliminal self, and he stopped and stared at Maxwell, stricken dumb. Maxwell politely touched his hat, and smilingly remarked that it was a fine day. Bascom made no reply at first. [Illustration: "I CONSIDER IT A SHAME AND A DISGRACE TO THE PARISH TO HAVE OUR RECTOR IN FILTHY CLOTHES, DRAWING STONE WITH A LOT OF RUFFIANS"]