With tears (tears well very easily) blurring your eyes and occasionally dropping from the end of your nose, in your little room you hastily overhaul your belongings.
Upon the bed (dear little bed!) you spread a bandanna ’kerchief, and in it you place an extra pair of stockings and your best necktie, and—well, there doesn’t seem to be much else worth taking, in the clothing line. A boy doesn’t need much; one outfit can last a long time. Besides, the raggeder you get, the better, for the more pitiable will be your plight. Your pockets already hold your jack-knife and your jew’s-harp, and thereto you add your burning-glass, and your cap-pistol (robbers and bears might not tell it from a real pistol) and a fish-line.
Cast one farewell look about the little room (dear little room!). It shall know you no more. Does it hate to see you go? But it mutely implores in vain. You settle your cap firmly upon your head, and stifling a sob over the pathos of it all you descend the stairs.
You stick the bandanna packet underneath your jacket. It would be nice if the household might suspect it, and still not see it. But the delicate medium is rather difficult to attain. Besides, it is too late for them to try to stop you, now.
Mother is in the sitting-room as you pass through the hall, kitchenward.
“Where are you going, Johnny boy?” she hails, cheerily.
“Nowhere,” you falter. “Just off.”
You pause, irresolutely, a second. If only you might be encouraged to go in to her, and with strange meaning in your caress kiss her, while she wondered at your tenderness; then in after days she would recall, and feel all the worse.
“Well, be sure and be home in time for supper. We’re going to have hot biscuits and honey!”
What a callous way to let you depart!