“That may be so. Perhaps you are right about that,” said Bob, “but still I think he was communing with himself. They call it his soliloquy, don’t they?”
“Yes; but he was crazy, wasn’t he? I think that’s what the critics say.”
“I don’t know. I believe so,” replied Bob, though somehow his air of confidence seemed to be departing. “Tom,” he added, “have you read much of Shakespeare?”
“I’ve read all he wrote,” said Tom. “We can’t do much except read in the winter down here on the river.”
Ben by this time had either examined the distant object on the river to his entire satisfaction, or else was startled by Tom’s words. At all events he quickly withdrew his gaze and looked at the young boatman in surprise, and even Bert had ceased to bury his face in the grass. Somehow the comical aspect of Tom’s speech had suddenly changed.
“What have you read this winter, Tom?” inquired Bob, slowly.
“Oh, I’ve read all of Shakespeare, as I told you, and then I’ve read all of Parkman’s histories, and all of Bancroft. You know Parkman has a good deal to say about the men who first came up the St. Lawrence, and I wanted to learn all I could about the part of the country I live in. But I wanted to know something about other countries too, so I’ve read Motley’s ‘Rise of the Dutch Republic,’ and Prescott’s ‘Conquest of Peru and of Mexico.’ Then I’ve read Wordsworth’s poems. It seems to me I enjoy him better than I do any other poet, for the country around his home must have been something like this St. Lawrence country. Don’t you think so?”
Before Bob could reply, Ben and Bert suddenly rose from the ground, and ran speedily into the tent where the trunks were.
“What’s the matter with those boys?” inquired Tom, innocently, looking up in surprise at the sudden departure of his companions.
“I don’t think they feel very well,” replied Bob, demurely; “or it may have been that they’ve gone to see if their fishing tackle is all right after the experience of yesterday. Tom,” he added, “do you read any fiction, any novels?”