Little Grandfather Part 16

Was ever anybody so provoking as Fred? w.i.l.l.y had an impulse to give him a hard push; 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 gra.s.s 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 w.i.l.l.y. "We must push along till we get to a barn or something."

w.i.l.l.y 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 w.i.l.l.y 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 w.i.l.l.y hurt _his_ feelings 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 w.i.l.l.y, trying his best to force back the tears; "and I don't think 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."

w.i.l.l.y 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 w.i.l.l.y, "if the hills were rolled out smooth."

They trudged on as bravely as they could, but, in spite of the cold, had to stop now 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 w.i.l.l.y, joyfully.

"Hus.h.!.+" 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 we should 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, w.i.l.l.y 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 G.o.d hear him? Ah, but would it do _not_ to 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 s.h.i.+ning in their eyes, and a gruff voice calling out,--

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

w.i.l.l.y 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 w.i.l.l.y, brus.h.i.+ng 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 w.i.l.l.y's,--gave him a sly poke in the side, as a hint to stop. w.i.l.l.y 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."

w.i.l.l.y 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 down to 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 refres.h.i.+ng to think of that the boys did not need much urging; but w.i.l.l.y 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 appearance of "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 pa.s.s 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. w.i.l.l.y, a far n.o.bler 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.

w.i.l.l.y 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 very well 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, w.i.l.l.y was soon asleep again.

At six o'clock Mr. Johonnet called the little travellers to breakfast.

The coffee was very dark-colored, with mola.s.ses 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."