“But he understands glass,” I said.
“Smash his glass!” growled Ike, digging away like a machine.
“I’m going to-day,” I said after a pause, and with all a boy’s longing for a sympathetic word or two.
“Oh! are you?” he said sulkily.
“Yes, and I don’t know when I shall get over here again.”
“Course you don’t,” growled Ike, smashing another clod. I stood patting the cat, hoping that Ike would stretch out his great rough hand to me to say “Good-bye;” but he went on digging, as if he were very cross.
“I didn’t know it till to-day, Ike,” I said.
“Ho!” said Ike with a snap, and he bent down to chop an enormous earthworm in two, but instead of doing so he gave it a flip with the corner of his spade, and sent it flying up into a pear-tree, where I saw it hanging across a twig till it writhed itself over, when, one end of its long body being heavier than the other, it dropped back on to the soft earth with a slight pat.
Still Ike did not speak, and all at once I heard Old Brownsmith’s voice calling.
“I must go now, Ike,” I said, “I’ll come back and say ‘Good-bye.’”