Bud laughed.
“That’s mighty good o’ you folks. But I can’t stay here. I got a lot to do. I mean we have.”
“We figured that all out,” laughed Josh. “Your things’ll be dry by noon. This mornin’ yo’ kin have my plow shoes an’ ole mill pants.”
When Bud emerged from the dustless and spotless bedroom to go to the basin bench out near the well, he was attired as if for a masquerade. Josh’s pants were so long that they had to be rolled up, and his old shoes were much too large. After a good wash up and an elaborate combing of his hair, he responded to Mrs. Camp’s smiling call to breakfast.
“It certainly is good fur sore eyes,” commented Josh’s mother as Bud sat down to breakfast—all alone—“to see Bud Wilson agin. I ain’t seen hide n’r hair o’ you in ten year, I reckon. An’ how air ye?”
Bud, between mouthfuls of fried ham, biscuits and pancakes, told of his life since he went to live with Attorney Stockwell. It took some time.
“An’ who’s on your pa’s farm?” asked Mrs. Camp.
Bud shook his head.
“I guess it’s been sold,” he ventured.
“Must a brought a good price,” suggested Mrs. Camp. “It was a good piece o groun’, as I recollec’.”