The lad gave a chuckle, a jerk of his head, and a thump of his crutch.
"You've walked fifty miles!" said Meg, with the homage of round-eyed surprise.
"Fifty miles," repeated the boy. "Then a friend o' mine is a carpenter. He would not trust me with a tool two years agone; and now I can plane and drive nails with the best of them. I had no money to buy a box of tools. I'm going to work for it with the boots. All I wants is the sloppy weather, and a spell of it, and that's enough for me."
Meg's admiration overflowed her pent-up heart, and moved her to confide in this cripple and ask his advice. She had not spoken to him of her schoolfellows, or of the object that had impelled her flight.
"Suppose," she began, "some one had been very kind to you, very good, would you not run away from people who were unkind to you, and laughed at you, and despised you?"
"No, I would stay to conquer them," said the cripple, stamping his crutch.
"How would you conquer them?" said Meg.
"I'd wear 'em out," said the lad. "Spite can't stand pluck; that's what I've found out. I'd give 'em a laugh, and if they pushed me hard I'd give 'em a slip of my crutch."
Meg was silent awhile with appreciation of such courage. Then she said:
"But suppose you felt sure there was a letter waiting for you, would you not go to get it?"