One morning it came to such a pass that Miles took a basket by himself, but he found the journey single-handed so hard that he was in even less hurry than usual to return from the fields and get a second load. Loitering along, he was amusing himself by trying to carry on his head the empty fish-basket, which would fall off, when, as he paused to pick up the troublesome article for the fifth time, Captain Standish, coming shirt-sleeved and grimy from the fields, overtook him. Rather guiltily, Miles straightened up very erect, and said, "Good morrow, sir," as he always said it to the Captain.
"You're journeying back to the brook, Miles?" asked Standish. "At this speed you'll not come thither ere dinner-time."
"I'm hastening now, sir," Miles answered, accepting the words as an invitation to trot along at the other's side.
The Captain had his own concerns to look to, plainly, by the way he tramped along, but, right in the midst, he glanced down at his small companion and asked unexpectedly: "Where are your shoes, Miles?"
"I—I could not wear them," the boy explained, kicking his bare feet in the sand. "Down by the river 'tis very wet. And then 'tis hot, so I laid off my doublet and my shoes and stockings too. I like to go barefoot," he added defensively. "In England, they never suffered me; they said only beggar children went barefoot. But—" his voice grew suddenly anxious, "I am sure my mother would think it right now, do not you, sir?"
The Captain did not look convinced.
"It is a great saving to my shoes," murmured Miles.
"You were better save your feet," the Captain answered. "When your shoes wear out, there'll be new ones for you. Now do you go to the house and put them on, before you step on a thorn or do yourself some hurt." His tone was brusque, and he hurried at once about his business, as if he had no time to waste.
Obediently Miles went to the house to finish dressing; he was a little sorry, because he liked the fun of going barefoot in the soft dirt, yet, on the whole, it was pleasant to have Captain Standish speak to you and order you into your shoes, as if he had some concern for you. So flattered did he feel, indeed, that he only smiled in a superior way when Francis Billington, barelegged and unregenerate, sneered at him for putting on his shoes and stockings.