A Roadside Statistician

THE road wound through a bit of woodland and climbed a steep hill. For some time I had been doubtful as to the result. The road seemed meandering and aimless. It lacked that appearance of sturdy determination which characterizes a road that knows its destiny and proceeds unfalteringly to it.

When we reached the top of the hill I saw a glaring sign which announced in letters a foot high, ‘This road does not go to Pottstown. ’ I stopped and read the sign carefully. There was no mistaking its import. The statement was brief and to the point, and yet I doubted. If it did not go to Pottstown, where could it go? I felt an impulse to push on in the hope that some happy chance would prove the sign wrong and my intuitions correct. The back seat was frankly skeptical and recommended going ahead on the ground, reasonable enough it seemed to me, that it must go somewhere — if not to Pottstown, then to some other equally attractive spot.

Still hesitating, I looked about me, and saw a tiny cottage by the side of the road. On a shabby little verandah there sat an elderly man who was watching us with evident interest. I determined to overcome my masculine disinclination to ask questions and, extricating myself from the embrace of the steering wheel, approached him. As I mounted the uncertain steps he rose and greeted me politely. He offered me the only other chair and, as I took it, settled himself with the air of a man about to engage in a long and confidential chat with an intimate friend. He quite ignored my impatient companions in the waiting car.

‘Permit, me to congratulate you,’ he said by way of introduction.

‘You are very kind, but why am I to be congratulated?’ I asked.

‘Because you are of the elect. You saw the sign, stopped and read it, and have come to me for information.’

‘But what is so remarkable about that?’ I inquired.

‘That sign has been there for three years. I put it there because there is a troublesome turn in the village below that brings many travelers up here. This road ends in a sand pit a mile from here. It is a difficult place to turn a car, and this bit of open space in front of my house permits mistaken travelers to turn and retrace their steps. ’

I noticed his punctilious use of the word ‘travelers’ and his polite avoidance of the abhorred word ‘tourist.’ I noticed too his unusual appearance. Clad in the roughest of clothing, he was clean-shaven and his sunburned face had the sensitiveness of the scholar. His hands, worn with labor, were delicately shaped and well cared for. ‘I first put the sign up,’ he continued, ‘as a service to travelers, but it has proved a source of great interest to me as well. I have compiled some rather interesting statistics. I should like to discuss them with you. ’

He rose and went into the house, to return shortly with a small leatherbound book. During his absence I called the rest of the party to join us, as I felt sure they would be rewarded.

Giving his chair to the lady of our party, he balanced himself on the verandah rail and opened the book. With the air of a professor of philosophy he resumed his discussion.

‘As I said, this sign has been in place for three years. The period covered is from April to November of each year. During the first year I was visited by 290 travelers. Of this number 235 ignored the sign and went on to the sand pit. Of the remaining 55 less than half retraced their steps without inquiry. The second year 360 came and 292 were uncertain as to the meaning of the sign and went ahead. The third year I had 410 visitors and 332 regarded the sign as unimportant and went on to the end of the road. I repaint the sign every year, that it may look precisely the same and so avoid any variation in conditions. If you care to figure it out you will find that almost exactly 81 per cent of my visitors over a period of three years have had precisely the same reactions to the sign. The only variation is seasonable. In August of each year, what I call the “non-responding” reach as high as 87 per cent, and in October the figure has fallen as low as 70 per cent. Now I wonder what it means; the uniformity of the percentages cannot be accidental. Have you a theory?’ he asked, turning to me.

I ignored the question. My mind was busy with another inviting line of speculation.

‘Have you noticed any difference in the reactions of men and women?’ I asked.

‘Yes,’ he answered, and turned to a table of figures in the back of the book. ‘Of the parties composed entirely of women, 93 per cent ignore the sign completely.’

‘That,’ I commented, ‘is the intuitive sense.’ He ignored the interruption.

‘Of the parties composed entirely of men, 25 per cent turn back. The uncertainty in my mind as I sit here is in regard to the parties composed of both men and women. I can never tell what the result will be. They may follow the feminine percentage and push on, or they may tend to the masculine table and stop, or at least make inquiries. I was speculating on what would happen when I saw you coming. ’

The lady in our party was becoming restless.

‘But,’ she said, ‘I do not understand. Men are so stupid, and so reluctant to ask questions.’

‘You are quite right,’ our host responded. ‘Of all questions asked, 97 per cent are asked by the women. I fancy they have more facility with the direct phrase.’

He closed his book. ‘It is all very baffling,’ he said. ‘I shall hope to have more significant figures as the years go by.’

We took our way back to the valley. I was preoccupied. Eighty-one per cent — what did it mean? Had the roadside statistician stumbled upon something that the educational experts are fumbling for? I did not know; I do not know now. We passed many intricate and uncertain corners where, in the fading light, I deciphered the messages on signposts. On two occasions, unprompted, I asked questions, with the most careful attention to the niceties of the direct phrase.

The back seat was strangely silent.