He had gathered up in his mind fragments of conversation that he had had with Gena Filson and Paul Waffington, about college; the city with its alluring charms, its street cars, steam trains and all. He sniffed it into his nostrils again, and it burnt his soul to know more about the big world beyond the hills.
It was growing late in the afternoon of Saturday, July 2, 1904. Boaz Honeycutt lay in his accustomed place on the knoll, stretched at full length in the grass with his hands in his palms, spelling out the words on a paper before him. Yes, Boaz Honeycutt had a father, a man who was used to hard toil, a lumberman, a man who felled the trees and by the hardest toil dragged them to a distant market. But there were seven other mouths to feed in the little shack that Boaz Honeycutt called home, and hence gross neglect had been the lot of the oldest child Boaz. The boy’s school days had been of sufficient length to allow him to hardly read and no longer.
“Congress, President Roosevelt, tariff,” he laboriously spelled out. “Shucks! I never seed nothin’ like none of them things! Papers ain’t fit fur nothin’ ’cept to wrap calico in nohow,” he concluded, brushing aside the paper and laying his head down in the fresh green grass.
The rider emerged from the gorge, rode up the little hill slowly and with little noise.
“Hello! Boaz, is that you?” called out Paul Waffington.
“Well, I wisht I may drap ded!” shouted the boy, jumping up into the air with delight. He hurriedly made a cross in the grass with his right foot, spat into the center of it five times, jumped up into the air again and bounded towards Waffington.
“By giggers, I’m glad to see ye. Git down an’ lemme take your hoss an’ put ’im up an’ feed ’im. When all uv ’em find out your here they’ll shore be glad, I bet. The Sunday-skule’s agoin’. Emeline’s well, Slade’s sellin’ more goods than he ever did—no, I’ll put ’im up myself—ten ears of corn and hay? Well, I’ll do it right, by giggers I will.”
On Sunday morning the little cracked bell on the school-house rang out in wheezen tones, warning the people that the Sunday-school would begin an hour earlier than was the custom. The founder of the Sunday-school was to be present, and Emeline Hobbs wanted to get a fair chance to show off the gracious qualities of the school that by persistent effort she had built up. She was indeed proud of her Sunday-school—boldly so—since Gena Filson had returned from college and had been elected vice-president or assistant superintendent and teacher of the intermediate class.
At the appointed time, Emeline Hobbs took her place at the front of the room, balanced herself on the wooden peg, and looked at the little audience with a grave countenance. Now and then she gave a quick jerk at the white, stiff collar that was fast cutting off circulation from her neck. Then she hopped over and arranged the “little class” on the left side of the room. Then the “big class” in the middle of the room. After settling the “intermedium class” on the right, she made another final round to see that all was ready to begin.
“Sh——s! Sh——! You Emmy! Set down, Boaz! Git ready, Carrie!” she made the entire command in a single breath.