Soon after breakfast, Jock, accompanied by his father and mother, returned to the camp, and the greeting which Mr. Cope gave his old schoolfellow, Ethan, was one which warmed the heart of that worthy boatman.
“I thought mebbe ye’d forgotten yer old friends since ye’ve got so rich,” said Ethan, soberly.
“Forgotten them? Why, man, they’re the best part of my life. I’ve a painting of the old red schoolhouse hanging in my dining room, and I never see it without thinking of the boys and girls who were there years ago, and the good times we used to have.”
“Got a pictur of it? Ye don’t say so!” exclaimed Ethan, in surprise. “Well, I never thought nobody’d want a pictur o’ that place. It’s most gone to rack an’ ruin now. I’m afeard we’ll have to fix it up purty quick or it’ll fall down o’ itself.”
“That’s too bad; I should think the district would keep it in repair.”
“The deestrict hain’t got no money. The only folks hereabouts what has any money are mostly those who’ve gone off deown to New York. Seems as if ’most any fool could make money deown there. The’ say as how Homer Perkins’s boy has gone deown there, an’ is a-gettin’ a dollar an’ a half a day the whole year through, an’ all he has to do is to drive a hoss car.”
Mr. Cope laughed as he replied, “I’m telling you the truth, Ethan, when I say I never worked so hard in my life as I do now. I used to pick up stones on the old farm, and haul and chop wood, and get up at four o’clock in the morning and milk eight or ten cows before breakfast, and then carry the milk to the factory, and that was before the day’s work was supposed to have begun; but all that’s as nothing compared with the way I have to work now.”
Ethan was evidently incredulous, and said, “What time do ye get up in the mornin’ now?”
“About eight o’clock.”