CHAPTER X.

"A train-band captain eke was he,Of credit and renown,"

and the Never-Give-Ups became such an orderly, well-trained company, that some of the rich fathers made them the present of a small cannon.

Do you know what a wonderful change that made in the condition of things? Well, I will tell you. They became at once an Artillery Company! Not poor little infantry any more, but great, brave artillery!

Every man among them cast aside his Quaker gun with contempt, and wore a cut-and-thrust sword, made out of the sharpest kind of wood. An Artillery Company,—think of that! The boys threw up their caps, and Willy sang,—

"Come, fill up my cup, come, fill up my can;Come, saddle your horses, and call up your men!Come, open the west port, and let us gang free,And it's room for the bonnets of Bonny Dundee!"

There was to be a General Muster that fall, and if you suppose the Perseverance boys had thought of anything else since the Fourth of July, that shows how little you know about musters.

A muster, boys—Well, I never saw a muster, myself; but it must have been something like this:—

A mixture of guns and gingerbread; men and music; horses and hard cider.

It was very exciting,—I know that. There were plumes dancing, flags waving, cannons firing, men marching, boys screaming, dogs barking; and women looking on in their Sunday bonnets.

The "Sharp-shooters" and the "String Beans" were there from Cross Lots; the Artillery from Harlow; the "Pioneers," in calico frocks, with wooden axes, from Camden; and all the infantry and cavalry from the whole country round about.

Seth Parlin belonged to the cavalry, or "troop," and made a fine figure on horseback. Willy secretly wondered if he would look as well whenhegrew up.

"Saddled and bridled and booted rode he,A plume at his helmet,A sword at his knee."

It seemed to be the general impressionthat the muster would do the country a great deal of good. The little artillery company, called the Never-Give-Ups, were on the ground before any one else, their cheeks painted with clear, cold air, and their hearts bursting with patriotism. As a rule, children were ordered out of the way; but as the little Never-Give-Ups had a cannon, they were allowed to march behind the large companies, provided they would be orderly and make no disturbance.

"Boys," said Willy, sternly,—for he felt all the importance of the occasion,—"boys, remember, George Washington was the Father of his Country; so you've got to behave."

The boys remembered "the father of his country" for a while, but before the close of the afternoon forgot him entirely. Therewere several stalls where refreshments were to be had,—such as cakes, apples, molasses taffy, sugar candy, and cider by the mugful, not to mention the liquors, which were quite too fiery for the little Never-Give-Ups.

At every halt in the march the boys bought something to eat or drink. There had been a barrel of cider brought from Mr. Chase's for their especial use, and Fred sold it out to the boys for four cents a glass. This was a piece of extraordinary meanness in him, for his father had intended the cider as a present to the company. The boys did not know this, however, and paid their money in perfect good faith.

"Hard stuff," said Willy, draining his mug. "I don't like it much."

"Why, it's tip-top," returned Fred. "My father says it's the best he ever saw."

Mr. Chase had never said anything of the sort. He had merely ordered his colored servant, Pompey, to put a barrel of cider on the wheelbarrow, and take it to the muster-ground. Whether Pompey and Fred had selected this one for its age I cannot tell, but the boys all declared it was "as hard as a stone wall."

Dr. Hilton, who seemed to be everywhere at once, heard them say that, and exclaimed,—

"Then I wouldn't drink any more of it, boys. Hard cider does make anybody dreadful cross. Better let it alone."

I fear the boys did not follow this advice, for certain it is that they grew outrageously cross. The trouble began, I believe,with Abram Noonin, who suddenly declared he wouldn't march another step with Jock Winter. As the marching was all done for the day, Abram might as well have kept quiet.

"Yes, you shall march with Jock Winter, too," said Captain Willy, exasperated with the throbbing pain in his head—the first he had ever felt in his life. "Pretty doings, if you are going to set up and say, 'I will' and 'I won't!'"

While the captain and the private were shooting sharp words back and forth, and Fred was busy drawing cider, Isaac Lovejoy, the rogue of the company, was very busy with his own mischief.

"Look here, Fred," said Joshua Potter, going up to the stall with a twinkle in his eye; "they don't ask but three cents amug, round at the other end of the barrel!"

"What do you mean by that?" cried the young cider merchant, looking up just in time to see Isaac Lovejoy marching off with the pitcher he had been filling from a hole in the barrel made with his jack-knife.

"Stop thief! Stop thief!" cried Fred.

"That's right," said one of the big boys from over the river. "Ike's selling your cider to the men for three cents a glass."

Perhaps this was one of Isaac's jokes, and he intended to give back the money; we will hope so. But, be that as it may, Fred was terribly angry; as angry, mind you, as if he was an honest boy himself, and had a perfect right to all the coppers jingling in his own pockets!

He ran after Ike, and caught him; and there was a scuffle, in which the pitcher was broken. Mr. Chase came up to inquire into it.

"Tut, tut, Isaac!" said he; "aren't you ashamed? You know that cider was a present to the Never-Give-Ups."

The boys were astonished, and Fred's face crimsoned with shame. As soon as Mr. Chase had gone away, Willy exclaimed, with a sudden burst of wrath,—

"Well, boys, if you are going to stand such a mean lieutenant as that, I won't! If he stays in lieutenant, I won't stay captain—so there!"

"Three cheers for the captain!" cried the boys; and there was another uproar.

And how did Fred feel towards the fearless, out-spoken Willy? Very angry, ofcourse; but, if you will believe me, he respected him more than ever. Pompous boys are often mean-spirited and cowardly; they will browbeat those who are afraid of them; but those who look down on them and despise them, they hold in the highest esteem. Willy had never scrupled to tell Fred just what he thought of his conduct; and for that very reason Fred liked him better than any other boy in town.

But the Never-Give-Ups were growing decidedly noisy. After they learned that the cider was their own, they must drink more of it, whether they wanted it or not. The consequence was, they soon began to act disgracefully.

"Can't you have peace there, you young scamps?" said one of the big boys from over the river.

"Yes, we will have peace if we have to fight for it," replied the captain, who had drawn the little hunchback Jock to his side, and was darting glances at Abe Noonin as sharp as a cut-and-thrust sword.

"Mr. Chase," said Dr. Hilton, struck with a new idea, "those boys act as if they were drunk."

"Why, how can they be?" returned Mr. Chase; "they've had nothing to drink but innocent cider."

"Any way," cried the doctor, "they are getting up a regular mob, and we shall have toquailit!"

Too true: it was necessary to quell the Never-Give-Ups, that orderly artillery company, the pride of the town! Quell it, and order it off the grounds!

Dire disgrace! Their steps were unsteadyand slow; their heads were bowed, but not with grief, for, to say the truth, they did not fully comprehend the situation.

"The little captain is the furthest gone of any of them," said Dr. Hilton. Indeed, before he reached home he was unable to walk, and Stephen carried him into the house in his arms. Not that Willy had drunk so much as some of the others, but it had affected him more.

Poor Mrs. Parlin! She had to know what was the matter with her boy; and the shock was so great that she went to bed sick, and Mr. Parlin sent for the doctor.

When Willy came to his senses next morning, there was a guilty feeling hanging over him, and his head ached badly. Hecrept down stairs, and fixed his gaze first on the sanded floor of the kitchen, then on the dresser full of dishes; but to look any one in the face he was ashamed. His mother was not at the table, and they ate almost in silence.

"Now, young man," said Mr. Parlin, after breakfast, "you may walk out to the barn with me." Willy had a dim idea that he had done something wrong; but exactly what it was he could not imagine. He remembered scolding Abe Noonin for hurting little Jock's feelings; was that what he was to be punished for?

Willy did not know he had been intoxicated. He was sure he did not like that cider, yesterday, and had taken only a little of it. He supposed he had eaten too much, and that was what had made him sick.

"Off with your jacket, young man!"

Old Dick neighed, Towler growled, the sheep bleated; it seemed as if they were all protesting against Willy's being whipped.

"Now, sir," said Mr. Parlin, after a dozen hearty lashes, "shall I ever hear of your getting drunk again?"

"Why, father! I didn't—O, I didn't! I only took some cider—just two mugfuls!" gasped Willy; "that's all; and you know you alwaysletme drink cider."

"Two mugfuls!" groaned Mr. Parlin, distressed at what he considered a wilful lie; and the blows fell heavier and faster, while Willy's face whitened, and his teeth shut together hard. Mr. Parlin had never acted from purer motives; still Willy felt that the punishment was not just, and it only served to call up what the boys termed his "Indian sulks."

Angry and smarting with pain in mind and body, he walked off that afternoon to the old red store. Fred was sitting under a tree, chewing gum.

"Had to take it, I guess, Billy?"

"Yes, an awful whipping," replied Willy; "did you?"

"Me? Of course not. Do you know how I work it? When father takes down the cowhide, I look him right in the eye, and that scares him out of it. Hedarsn'tflog me!"

This was a downright lie. Fred was as great a coward as ever lived, and screamed at sight of a cowhide. He had been whipped for cheating about the cider, but would not tell Willy so.

Willy looked at him with surprise and something like respect. He could neverseem to learn that Freddy's word was not to be trusted.

"Well, I'll do so next time," cried he, his eyes flashing fire.

"Look here," said Fred, crossing his knees, and looking important; "let's run away."

"Why, Fred Chase! 'Twould be wicked!"

"'Twouldn't, either. Things ain't wicked when folks don't catch you at it; and we can go where folks won't catch us, now I promise you."

Willy's heart leaped up with a strange joy. He would not run away, but if Fred had a plan he wanted to hear it.

"Why, where could we go?"

"To sea."

"Poh! our Caleb got flogged going to sea."

"O, well, Captain Cutter never flogs. He's a nice man,—lives down to Casco Bay. And of all the oranges that ever you saw, and the guava jelly, and the pine-apples! he's always sending them to mother."

"I never ate a pine-apple."

"Didn't you? Well, come, let's go; Captain Cutter will be real glad to see us; come, to-night; he'll treat us first rate."

"'My son, if sinners entice thee, consent thou not.'"

It seemed as if Willy could hear his mother saying the words.

"You and I are the best kind of friends, Willy. We'd have a real nice time, and come home when we got ready."

Willy did not respond to this. He did not care very much about Fred,—nobodydid,—and if he should be persuaded to go with him, it would not be from friendship, most certainly.

"I wouldn't go off and leave mother; 'twould be real mean: but sometimes I don't like father one bit,—now, that's a fact," burst forth Willy, with a heaving breast. "I told him I didn't like your cider, and didn't take but two mugfuls; but he didn't believe a word I said."

"You're a fool to stand it, Billy."

"I won't stand it again—so there!"

"There, that's real Injun grit," said Fred, approvingly; "stick to it."

"Father thinks children are foolish; he hates to hear 'em talk," pursued Willy; "and then, when you don't talk, he says you're sulky."

"Well, if you go off he won't get a chance to say it again."

"O, but you see, Fred—"

"Pshaw! youdarsn't!"

"Now,you'renot the one to call me a coward, Fred Chase."

"Well, if youdars, then come on."

Willy did not answer. He was deliberating; and I wish you to understand that in a case like this "the child that deliberates is lost."

Without listening to any more of the boys' conversation, we will go right on to the next chapter, and see what comes of it.

Seven o'clock was the time appointed to meet, and Willy watched the tall clock in the front entry with a dreadful sinking at the heart. His mother was not at the supper-table and he was glad of that. Ever since muster she had staid in her room, suffering from a bad toothache. As her face was tied up, and she could not talk, Willy was not quite sure how she felt.

"How can I tell whether she has been crying or not? Her eyes are swelled, any way. Perhaps she doesn't care much. She used to love me, but she thinks I act sobad now that it's no use doing anything with me. I can't make her understand it at all."

It was a pity he thought of his mother just then, for it was hard enough, before that, swallowing his biscuit.

"She said to me, out in the orchard, one day,—says she, 'Willy, if a boy wants to do wrong, he'll find some way to do it;' and I s'pose she was thinking about me when she said it. S'pose she thinks I'm going to be bad—mother does. Well, then, I ought to go off out of the way; she doesn't want me here; what does she want of a bad boy? She'll be glad to get rid of me; so'll Love."

You see what a hopeless tangle Willy's mind was in. What ailed his biscuit he could not imagine, but it tasted as dry as ashes.

"Why, sonny," said Stephen, "what are you staring at your plate so for? That's honey. Ever see any before?"

"This is the last chance Steve will have to pester me," thought the child; and he almost pitied him.

"Guess he'll feel sorry he's been so hard on a little fellow like me."

As for grown-up Seth, it was certain thathisconscience would prick, and on the whole Willy was rather glad of it, for Seth had no right to correct him so much. "Only eighteen, and not my father either!"

Willy did not think much about himself, and how he would be likely to feel after he had left this dear old home—the home where every knot-hole in the floor was precious. It would not do to brood over that; and besides, there was sullen angerenough in his heart to crowd out every other feeling.

There were circles in the wood of the shed-door which he had made with a two-tined fork; and after supper he made some more, while waiting for a chance to pocket a plate of doughnuts. Of course it wasn't wrong to take doughnuts, when it was the last morsel he should ever eat from his mother's cupboard. He had the whole of eighteen cents in his leathern wallet; but that sum might fail before winter, and it was best to take a little food for economy's sake.

At quarter of seven he put on his cap, and was leaving the house, when his father said, severely,—

"Where are you going, young man?"

Mr. Parlin did not mean to be severe,but he usually called Willy a "young man" when he was displeased with him.

"Going to the post-office, sir, just as I always do."

Willy spoke respectfully,—he had never done otherwise to his father,—and Mr. Parlin little suspected the tempest that was raging in the child's bosom.

"Very well; go! but don't be gone long."

"'Long?' Don't know what he calls long," thought the little boy. "P'raps I'll be gone two years; p'raps I'll be gone ten. Calls me a 'young man' after he has whipped me. Guess Iwillbe a young man before I get back! Guess there won't be any more horsewhippings then!"

And, dizzy with anger, he walked fast to the post office, without turning his head.

Fred was there, anxiously waiting for him. The two boys greeted each other with a meaning look, and soon began to move slowly along towards the guide-board at the turn of the road.

To the people who happened to be looking that way, it seemed natural enough that Willy and Fred should be walking together. If anybody thought twice about the matter, it was Dr. Hilton; and I dare say he supposed they were swapping jack-knives.

As soon as they were fairly out of sight of the village, Fred said, sneeringly,—

"Well, I've been waiting most half an hour—I suppose you know. Began to think you'd sneaked out of it, Bill."

There is an insult in the word 'sneak' that no boy of spirit can bear, and Willy was in no mood to be insulted.

"Fred Chase," said he, bristling, "I'll give you one minute to take that back."

"O, I didn't mean anything, Billy; only you was so awful slow, you know."

"Slow, Fred Chase! You needn't callmeslow! Bet you I can turn round three times while you're putting out one foot."

It is plain enough, from the tone of this conversation, that the boys had not started out with that friendly feeling, which two travellers ought to have for each other, who are intending to take a long journey in company. Fred saw it would not do for Willy to be so cross in the very beginning. He had had hard work to get the boy's consent to go, and now, for fear he might turn back, he suddenly became very pleasant.

"Look here, Billy; you can beat me running;I own up to that; but we've got to keep together, you know. Don't you get ahead of me—now will you?"

"I'll try not to," replied Willy, somewhat softened; "but you do get out of breath as easy as a chicken."

"Most time to begin to run?" said Fred, after they had trudged on for some time at a moderate pace.

"No; there's a man coming this way," replied the sharper-eyed Willy.

"O, yes; I see him now. Who suppose it is?"

"Why, Dr. Potter, of course. Don't you know him by hisshappo brar?"

Thechapeau braswas a three-cornered hat, the like of which you and I have never seen, except in very old pictures.

As Dr. Potter met the boys, he shookhis ivory-headed cane, and said, playfully, "Good evening, my little men."

"Good evening, sir."

But it was certainly a bad evening inside their hearts, sulky and dark.

"What if Dr. Potter should tell where he met us?" exclaimed Fred. "Lucky 'twasn't Dr. Hilton.—There, he's out of the way; now let's run."

They were on the road to Cross Lots, a town about five miles from Perseverance. They had not as yet marked out their course very clearly, but thought after they should reach Cross Lots it would be time enough to decide what to do next.

They ran with all their might, but did not make the speed they desired, for they jumped behind the fences whenever they heard a wagon coming, and were obligedto stop often, besides, for Freddy to take breath. By the time they reached Cross Lots—a thriving little town with a saw-mill—it was pretty late; and if it had not been for the bright light of the moon and stars, they might have been a little disheartened.

They took a seat on a stump near the saw-mill, and prepared to talk over the situation. A lonesome feeling had suddenly come upon them, which caused them to gaze wistfully upon the "happy autumn fields" and the far-off sky.

"Stars look kind o' shiny—don't they?" said Fred, heaving a sigh.

Willy forced a gay tone.

"What s'pose makes 'em keep up such a winking? Like rows of pins, you know,—gold pins; much as a million of 'em,and somebody sticking 'em into a great blue cushion up there, and keeps a-sticking 'em in, but out they come again."

"I never heard of such a silly idea in my life," sneered Fred. "Pins!—H'm!"

"Why, can't you tell when a fellow's in fun, Fred Chase? Thought I meant real pins—did you? The stars are worlds, and I guess I know it as well as you do."

"Worlds? A likely story, Bill Parlin! Mother has said so lots of times, but you don't stuff such a story downmythroat."

"Don't believe your mother!" exclaimed Willy, astonished. "Why, I always believe my mother. She never made a mistake in her life."

Fred laughed.

"She don't know any more'n anybody else, you ninny! only you think so because she makes such a baby of you."

Willy reddened with sudden shame, but retorted sharply,—

"Stop that! You shan't say a word against my mother."

"But you let me talk about your father, though. What's the difference?"

"Lots. You may talk about father as much as you've a mind to," said Willy, scowling; "for he no business to whip me so. He thinks boys are pretty near fools."

"That's just what my father thinks," returned Fred.

Whereupon the two boys were friends again, having got back to their one point of agreement.

"If I had a boy I wouldn't treat himso,—now I tell you," said Willy, clinching his little fists. "I'd let him have a good time when he's young."

"So'd I!"

"For when he's old he won't want to have a good time."

"That's so."

"And I wouldn't be stingy to him; I'd let him have all the money he could spend."

"So'd I," responded the ungrateful Fred, who had probably had more dollars given him to throw away than any other boy in the county.

"I'd treat a boy real well. I wouldn't make him work as tight as he could put in," pursued Willy, overcome with dreadful recollections.

"Nor I, neither! Guess I wouldn't!"

"Poh! what do you know about it, Fred? Your father's rich, and don't keep a pig!"

"What if he don't? What hurt does a pig do?"

"Why, you have to carry out swill to 'em. Then there's the wood-box, and there's the corn to husk, and the cows to bring up! It makes a fellow ache all over."

"No worse'n errands, Bill! Guess you never came any nearer blistering your feet than I did last summer, time we had so much company. Mother's a case for thinking up errands."

"Well, Fred, we've started to run away."

"Should think it's likely we had."

"I'm going 'cause I can't stand it to be whipped any more; but you don't getwhipped, Fred. What areyougoing for?"

"Why, to seek my fortune," replied Fred, spitting, in a manly fashion, into a clump of smartweed. "Always meant to, you know, soon's I got so I could take care of myself; and now I can cipher as far assubstraction, what more does a fellow want?"

"Don't believe you can spell 'phthisic,' though."

As this remark had nothing to do with the case in point, Fred took no notice of it. What if he couldn't spell as well as Willy? He was a year and a half older, and had the charge of this expedition.

"Which way you mean to point, Billy?"

"Why, I thought we were going to sea. That's what you said; and I put a lot ofnutcakes in my pocket to eat 'fore we got to the ship."

"You did? Well, give us some, then, for I'm about starved."

"So'm I, too."

And one would hardly have doubted it, to see them both eat. The doughnuts were sweet and spicy, and cheering to the spirits; the young travellers did not once stop to consider that they might need them more by and by. Children are not, as a general rule, very deeply concerned about the future. Birds of the air may have some idea where to-morrow's dinner is coming from; but these boys neither knew nor cared.

"First rate," remarked Fred, as the last doughnut disappeared. "But I don't know about going to sea. It's plaguy tough work climbing ropes, they say, and I heard of aboy that got whipped so hard he jumped overboard."

"Let's not go, then," cried Willy.

"Catch me!" said Fred. "I've been thinking of the lumb'ring business. They make money fast as you can wink up there to the Forks."

"Let's go lumbering, then."

"Guess we will, Billy. You see the trees don't cost anything,—they grow wild,—and all you've got to do is to chop 'em down."

"Yes," said Willy, "and we need red shirts for that. I never chopped a tree's I know of. Could, though, if I had a sharp axe. Guess I could, I mean,—I mean if the tree wasn'ttoobig!"

"O, we shan't chop 'em ourselves," said Fred, spitting grandly. "Wasn't my fathera lumberman once, and got rich by it? But didheever cut down a tree? What's the use? Hire men, you know."

"O!" exclaimed Willy. But a gleam of common sense striking him next moment, he added, "but the money; where'll we get that?"

"O, we'll get it after a while," replied Fred, vaguely. "My father was a poor boy once. Fact! I've heard him tell about it. Nothing but tow-cloth breeches, and wale-cloth jacket, off there to Groton. And he made butter tubs and potash tubs, sir. And he took his pay in beaver skins. And then he went afoot to Boston, and he rolled a barrel of lime round the Falls, sir. I've heard him tell it five million times. And my aunt Tempy, she rode a-horseback three hundred miles to Concord.—O,poh! there's lots of ways to make money, if you try. And once he took his pay in potash,—my father did; and he sold tobacco. O, there's ways enough to make money if you keep your eyes open; that's what my father says."

Willy's eyes were open enough, if that were all. At any rate, he was trying his very best to keep them open. Half of his mind was sleepy, and half of it very wide awake indeed. There was something so inspiring in Fred's confident tone. Rather misty his plans might be as yet; but hadn't Willy heard, ever since he could remember, that people were sure to succeed if they were only "up and doing?"

"Come, let's start," said he, rising eagerly, as the bell rang for nine. "If we aregoing to the Forks we must go to Harlow first; I know that much."

And turning the corner at the left, the two wise little pilgrims set out upon their travels,—

"Strange countries for to see."

Willy started upon the run; but Fred, as soon as he could overtake him, and speak for puffing, exclaimed,—

"Now, Will Parlin, what's the use? We've got a good start, and let's take it fair and easy."

This was the most sensible remark Fred had made for the evening. Lazy and good-for-nothing as he was, he had spoken the truth for once. If they were ever to arrive at the Forks, they were likely to do it much sooner by walking than running. Willy did not understand this. Being aslithe as a young deer, he preferred "bounding over the plains" to lagging along with such a slow walker as Fred.

The town of Harlow was twelve miles away, and it was Fred's opinion that they should reach it in season for an early breakfast.

"I've got two dollars in my pocket," said he, "and I guess we shan't starvethisfall."

Willy thought of the eighteen cents he had been six weeks in saving, but was ashamed to speak of such a small sum.

"Well, we shan't get to Harlow, or any where else, till day after to-morrow afternoon, if you don't hurry up," said he, impatiently. "You say you can't run, but I should think you might do as much as to march. Now, come,—left, foot out,—while I whistle."

Fred tried his best, but he was one of the few boys born with "no music in his soul," and he could not keep step.

"What's the matter with you, Fred Chase?"

"Don't know. Guess you haven't got the right tune."

Willy stopped short in "Come, Philander," and turned it into "Hail, Columbia;" but it made no difference. "Roy's Wife," or "Fy! let us a' to the wedding," was as good as anything else. Fred took long steps or short steps, just as it happened, and Willy never had understood, and could not understand now, what did ail Fred's feet; it was very tiresome, indeed.

"Look here: what tune have I been whistling now? See if you know?"

"Why, that's—that's—some kind of adancing tune. Can't think. O, yes; 'Old Hundred.'"

"Fred Chase!" thundered Willy; "that's'Yankee Doodle!' Anybody that don't know Yankee Doodlemustbe a fool!"

"Why, look here now: I know Yankee Doodle as well as you do, Will Parlin, only you didn't whistle it right!"

At another time Willy would have been quick to laugh at such an absurd remark; but now, tired as he was, it made him downright angry. He stopped whistling, and did not speak again for five minutes. Meanwhile he began to grow very sleepy.

"Wish we were going to battle," said Fred at last, for the sake of breaking the silence. "I'd like to be in a good fight; that is, if they had decent music. I could march to a fife and drum first rate."

"Could, hey! Then why didn't you ever do it?"

"Do you mean to say I don' know how to march? Know how as well as you do."

"Think's likely," snarled Willy, "forIcan't march if I haveyouto march with. Can't keep step with anybody that ain't bright!"

"Nor I can't, either, Will Parlin; that's why I can't keep step with you."

"Well, then, go along to the other side of the road—will you? I won't have you here with your hippity-hop, hippity-hop."

"Go to the other side of the road your own self, and see how you like it," retorted Fred. "I won't haveyouhere, with your tramp, tramp, tramp."

Was ever anybody so provoking as Fred? Willy had an impulse to give him a hardpush; but before he could extend his arm to do it, he had forgotten what they were quarrelling about. That strange sleepiness had drowned every other feeling, and Fred's "tramp, tramp, tramp," spoken in such drawling tones, had fairly caused his eyes to draw together.

"Guess I'll drop down here side of the road, and rest a minute," said he.

"So'll I," said Fred, always ready for a halt if not for a march.

But it was a cold night. As soon as they had thrown themselves upon the faded grass they began to feel the pinchings of the frost.

"None of your dozing yet a while," said Fred, who, though tired, was not as sleepy as Willy. "We must push along till we get to a barn or something."

Willy rose to his feet, promptly.

"Look up here and show us your eyes, Billy. I've just thought of something. How do I know but you're sound asleep this minute? Generally sleep with your eyes open—don't you—and walk round too, just the same?"

Fred said this with a cruel laugh. He knew Willy was very sensitive on the subject of sleep-walking, and he was quite willing to hurt his feelings. Why shouldn't he be? Hadn't Willy hurthisfeelings by making those cutting remarks in regard to music? As for the Golden Rule, Master Fred was not the boy to trouble himself about that; not in the least.

"I haven't walked in my sleep since I was a small boy," said Willy, trying his best to force back the tears; "and I don'tthink it's fair to plague me about it now."

"Well, then, you needn't plague me for not keeping step to your old whistling. If you want to know what the reason is I can't keep step, I'll tell you; it's because my feet are sore. They've been tender ever since I blistered 'em last summer."

Willy was too polite this time, or perhaps too sleepy, to contradict.

It did seem as if the road to Harlow was the longest, and the hills the steepest, ever known.

"Call it twelve miles—it's twenty!" said Fred, beginning to limp.

"Would be twenty-five," said Willy, "if the hills were rolled out smooth."

They trudged on as bravely as they could, but, in spite of the cold, had to stopnow and then to rest, and by the time they had gone eight miles it seemed as if they could hold out no longer.

"I shouldn't be tired if I were in your place," said Fred; "it's my feet, you know."

"Here's a barn," exclaimed Willy, joyfully.

"Hush!" whispered cautious Fred; "don't you see there's a house to it, and it wouldn't do to risk it? Folks would find us out, sure as guns."

A little farther on there was a hayrack at the side of the road, filled with boards; and after a short consultation the boys decided to climb into it, and "camp down a few minutes."

"It won't do to stay long," said Fred, "for it must be 'most sunrise; and weshould be in a pretty fix if anybody should go by and catch us."

It was only one o'clock! The boards were not as soft as feathers, by any means, but the boys thought they wouldn't have minded that if they could only have had a blanket to spread over them. More forlorn than the "babes in the wood," they had not even the prospect that any birds would come and cover them with leaves.

As they stretched themselves upon the boards, Willy thought of his prayer. "Now I lay me down to sleep." Never, since he could remember, had he gone to bed without that. Would it do to say it now? Would God hear him? Ah, but would it donotto say it? So he breathed it softly to himself, lest Fred should hear and laugh at him.

It was so cold that Fred declared he couldn't shut his eyes, and shouldn't dare to, either; but in less than a minute both the boys were fast asleep.

They had slept about three hours, without stirring or even dreaming, when they were suddenly wakened by the glare of a tin lantern shining in their eyes, and a gruff voice calling out,—

"Who's this? How came you here?"

Willy stared at the man without speaking. Was it to-night, or last night, or to-morrow night?

Fred had not yet opened his eyes, and the worthy farmer was obliged to shake him for half a minute before he was fairly aroused.

"Who are you? What are you here for?" repeated he.

Then the boys sat upright on the boards and looked at each other. They were both covered with a thick coating of frost, as white as if they had been out in a snowstorm. What should they say to the man? It would never do to tell him their real names, for then he would very likely know who their fathers were, and send them straight home. Dear! dear! What a pity they happened to fall asleep! And why need the man have come out there in the night with a lantern?—a man who probably had a bed of his own to sleep in.

"I—I—" said Willy, brushing the frost off his knees; and that is probably as far as he would have gone with his speech, for his tongue failed him entirely; but Fred, being afraid he might tell the whole truth,—which was a bad habit of Willy's,—gavehim a sly poke in the side, as a hint to stop. Willy couldn't and wouldn't make up a wrong story; but Fred could, and there was nothing he enjoyed more.

"Well, sir," said he, clearing his throat, and looking up at the farmer with a face of baby-like innocence, "I guess you don't know me—do you? My name's Johnny Quirk, and this boy here's my brother, Sammy Quirk."

Willy drew back a little. It seemed as if he himself had been telling a lie. Ah! and wasn't it next thing to it?

"Quirk? Quirk? I don't know any Quirks round in these parts," said the farmer.

"O, we live up yonder," said Fred, pointing with his finger. "We live two miles beyond Harlow, and we were downto Cross Lots to aunt Nancy's, you see, and they sent for us to come home,—mother did. Our father's dreadful sick: they don't expect he'll get well."

"You don't say so! Poor little creeturs! And here you are out doors, sleeping on the rough boards. Come right along into the house with me, and get warm. What's the matter with your father?"

"Some kind of a fever; and he don't know anything; he's awful sick," replied Fred, running his sleeve across his eyes.

The good farmer's heart was touched. He thought of his own little boys, no older than these, and how sad it would be if they should be left fatherless.

"Come in and get warm," said he. "It's four o'clock, and you shall sleep in a good bed till six, and then I'll wake you up, and give you some breakfast."

"O, I don't know as we can; we ought to be going," said Fred, wiping his eyes; "father may be dead."

"Yes, but you shall come in," persisted the farmer; "you're all but froze. If 'twas my little boys, I should take it kindly in anybody that made 'em go in and get warm. Besides, you can travel as fast again if you start off kind of comfortable."

A good bed was so refreshing to think of that the boys did not need much urging; but Willy entered the house with downcast eyes and feelings of shame, whereas Fred could look their new friend in the face, and answer all his questions without wincing.

Mr. Johonnet thought himself a shrewd man, but he could not see into the hearts of these young children. He liked the appearanceof "Johnny Quirk," an "open-hearted, pretty-spoken little chap, that any father might be proud of;" but "Sammy" did not please him as well; he was not so frank, or so respectful,—seemed really to be a little sulky. There are some boys who pass off finely before strangers, because they are not in the least bashful, and have a knack of putting on any manner they choose; and Fred was one of these. Willy, a far nobler boy, was naturally timid before his betters; but even if he had been as bold as Fred, his conscience would never have let him say and do such untrue things.

Willy suffered. Although he had told no lies himself, he had stood by and heard them told without correcting them. How much better was that? Still it seemed as if, as things were, he could not verywell have helped himself. So much for falling into bad company. "Eggs should not dance with stones."

"Well; I never'd have come with Fred Chase if father hadn't whipped me 'most to death."

And, soothed with this flimsy excuse, Willy was soon asleep again.

At six o'clock Mr. Johonnet called the little travellers to breakfast. The coffee was very dark-colored, with molasses boiled in it, and there were fried pork, fried potatoes swimming in fat, and clammy "rye and indian bread." None of these dishes were very inviting to the boys, who both had excellent fare at home; and they would have made but a light meal, if it had not been for the pumpkin pie and cheese, which Mr. Johonnet asked his wife to set on the table.

"Poor children, they must eat," said he; "for they've got to get home to see their sick father."

There were so many questions to be asked, that the boys made quick work of their breakfast and hurried away.

"There, glad we're out of that scrape," said Fred.

"Butdidn'tyou lie? Why, Fred, how could you lie so?"

"H'm! Did it up handsome—didn't I, though? Wouldn't give a red cent for you. You haven't the least gumption about lying."

Willy shivered and drew away a little. His fine nature was shocked by Fred's coarseness and lack of principle; still, this was the boy he had chosen for an intimate friend!

"If it hadn't been for me you'd have let the cat out of the bag," chuckled Fred. "You hung your head down as if you'd been stealing a sheep."

It was three miles farther to Harlow, and Fred grumbled all the way about his sore feet.

"See that yellow house through the trees?" said he. "That's my uncle Diah's; wish we could go there and rest."

"But what's the use to wish?" returned Willy. "Look here, Fred; isn't there a ford somewhere near here?"

To be sure there was. They had forgotten that; and sometimes the ford was not fordable, and it was necessary to go round-about in order to cross a ferry. While they were puzzling over this new dilemma, a stage-horn sounded.

"That's the Harlow driver; he knows us," cried Fred; "let's hide quick."

They concealed themselves behind some aspen trees on the bank, and "peeking" out, could see the stage-coach and its four sleek horses, about an eighth of a mile away, driving down the ferry-hill into the river.

"Good!" said Willy; "there's the ford, and now we know. And the water isn't up to the horses' knees; sowecan cross well enough."

"Yes, and get our breeches wet," groaned Fred.

"O, that's nothing. Lumbermen don't mind wet breeches," said Willy, cheerily.

"Lumbermen? Who said we were lumbermen? I shan't try it yet a while; my feet are too plaguy sore!"

"Shan't try what?"

"Well, nothing, I guess," yawned Fred; "lumber nor nothing else."

The stage had passed, by this time, and they were walking towards the ford. When they reached it, Willy, nothing daunted, drew off his stockings and shoes, and began to roll up his pantaloons.

"Look here, Billy; if you see any fun in this business,Idon't!"

"Fun? O, but we don't spect that, you know," said heroic Willy, stepping into the stream.

"Cold as ice, I know by the way you cringe," said lazy Fred, who had not yet untied his shoes.

"Come on, Fred; who minds the cold?"

"Now wait a minute, Billy. I hadn't got through talking. I'm not going to kill myself for nothing; I want some fun out of it."

"Do come on and behave yourself," called back Willy; "when we get rich we'll have the fun."

"Well, go and get rich then," cried Fred; "I shan't stir another step! My father's got money enough, and I needn't turn my hand over."

Willy stopped short.

"But you are going to the Forks with me?"

"Who said I was?"

"Why, you said so, yourself. You were the one that put it in my head."

"O, that was only talk. I didn't mean anything."

Willy turned square round in the water, and glared at Fred, with eyes that seemed to shoot sparks of fire.

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