“And as you’re running away I suppose you want to get as far away as you can?”
“Yes, indeed, I do.”
“Well, then, I guess I will give you a lift. Of course you don’t know me, but my name’s Ben Pancost, and I’m a tin peddler,” the last with an air of business-like pride.
“You don’t look old enough to be a tin peddler,” was Posey’s comment. “All I ever saw were old men with hook noses.”
“I was fifteen last March. I guess Mr. Bruce thinks that will do, at any rate I’ve been on one of his wagons all summer. I stayed last night at that house,” indicating by a jerk of his thumb the red house on the knoll, “and this morning one of the wagon tires seemed loose, so I drove into the creek to let Billy drink, and swell up the wheel. You saw my red cart as you came along, didn’t you?”
“No; the willows must have hid it. I didn’t know that there was anybody anywhere near, that was why I was scared when you looked around the corner of the bridge. And, oh, it’s so good of you to let me ride!”
But Ben had a boy’s horror of thanks. “I guess by this time the wheel is soaked,” he hastened to say, “so I’ll drive out of the creek and then this train will be ready to pull out.”
An hour before Posey would hardly have believed that she could ever again feel like laughing. But there was something so infectious in the cheery good humor, the ready self-confidence, and above all the hearty sympathy of her new friend, that she laughed gayly at his merry tone and twinkling eyes, as, swinging around the corner of the bridge, he jumped down, and soon the stout bay horse and red cart came into view at the opposite end of the bridge—such a cart as she had more than once seen that summer, with great sacks of rags piled high on its top, and a fringe of old rubber boots dangling around the bottom.
While Ben was making sure that everything was in good order and securely fastened before he started, Posey ran down to the clear water and wetting her handkerchief washed her face and hands, straightened her hat and cape, and made herself look as tidy as she could. Her spirits had even risen so high that sitting down on the grassy bank she ventured into her lunch, and fancying that she saw Ben give another glance at the pie, as a slight expression of her overflowing gratitude she held it out to him, urging, “Do take it. I know it’s good, for Mrs. Hagood always makes such nice pumpkin pies.”
Ben looked at the tempting delicacy with a true boy’s appetite. “I’ll tell you what I will do,” drawing out his pocketknife, “I’ll cut it in two and eat one half if you will the other. No, I sha’n’t take the whole of it. Besides, I’ve read of people breaking bread together as a pledge of friendship; well, we’ll break this pie together as our pledge.”