“A very poor spread, Griggs,” said Wilton, smiling, “but of course we shall be glad if you’ll share it.”
“I call that rale kind of you, and I will stop, for I’m downright hungry, and precious little to home. I say, if the President ever sends round for us to vote a new name for this part of the State I shall propose that we call it Starvationton. Why, look here, you’re a deal better off for corn and hay than I am to home,” he continued, as he sat back after munching potatoes and damper, and washing all down with fresh cool water from a little spring which never failed. “White wine too as never gets into a fellow’s head. But the place don’t answer my expectations; does it yours?”
“Ours? No, Griggs,” said Mr Bourne sadly. “We’ve made up our minds to give it up.”
“Not pull up stakes and go?” cried the American, bringing the haft of his knife down upon the rough table with a loud rap.
“Yes,” said the doctor; “fruit-growing here is fruitless.”
“Yes, because we don’t get any fruit. But look here, you neighbour Wilton, you don’t say anything: you don’t mean to go too?”
“Indeed, but I do,” replied the gentleman addressed.
“Hear him!” cried the American. “But you lads—you are going?”
“Why, of course we should,” cried the boys, in a breath.
“What, and leave me nearly all alone by myself? Well, as sure as my name’s ’Thaniel Griggs, I call it mean.”