“Those—why, those are your own best beloved books! Would you trust them with me away from home? Will they be of any use on a house-boat?”
“Yes, yes, you ‘doubting Thomas.’ Now—how much money have you on hand?”
“Ten dollars. I’d saved it for a lexicon and some—some other things.”
“This bulky fellow is a lexicon I used in my youth; and since Latin is a ‘dead language’ it’s as much alive and as helpful now as ever. That book is my parting gift to you; and ten dollars is sufficient for your fare and a day’s needs. good-bye.”
All the time he had been talking Mr. Winters had been deftly packing the calf-bound volumes in the shabby “telescope,” and now strapped it securely. Then he held out his hand with a cheerful smile lighting his fine face, and remarking:
“When you see my dear ones just say everything good to them and say I said it. Good-bye.”
Jim hurried away lest his friend should see the moisture that suddenly filled his eyes. He “hated good-byes” and could never get used to partings. So he fairly ran over the road to the gates of Deerhurst and worked off his troublesome emotion by hoeing every vestige of a weed from the broad driveways on its grounds. He toiled so swiftly and so well that old Hans felt himself relieved of the task and quietly went to sleep in his chair by the lodge door.
Gradually, too, the house-boat idea began to interest him. He had but a vague notion of what such a craft was like and found himself thinking about it with considerable pleasure. So that when, at three o’clock the next afternoon, he stepped down from the train at Union Station he was his old, eager, good-natured self.
“Hello, Doll!”
“O Jim! The three weeks since I saw you seems an age! Isn’t it just glorious? I’m so glad!”