“Finally, I drifted to Prescott mill, some seasons before you were born, William.”
“Have you ever wanted to go back?” asked Billy.
“No, William, I haven’t. There’s nobody left out there that belongs to me, anyway. My lame knee wasn’t the only reason why I left, William. I heard something about the country that I didn’t like at all; I didn’t like it at all.”
“Weren’t the people good?” asked Billy.
“Very good people,” answered Thomas Murphy firmly. “’Twas something about the mountain that I heard.
“There were always men around examining the mines. I never paid much attention to ’em till one day I heard a man—they said he came from some college—a-talking about volcanoes. He said that iron mountain was thrown up by a volcano, said he was sure of it.
“I never told anybody, William, but I cleared out the very next day. You’ve never heard anything about volcanoes round here, have you, William?”
“No, Mr. Murphy,” answered Billy.
“If you ever should, William——” said Thomas Murphy, leaning anxiously forward.
“If I ever do hear, Mr. Murphy,” said Billy, feeling that he was making a promise, “I’ll tell you right away.”