“‘Shaw! I would not talk that way,” said Peleg, throwing an ear of corn into the pile. “You have got friends enough here. There is Caleb and Jonas—”
“I reckon you don’t know what sort of friends they are to me,” Nat interposed.
“Well, between I and you, I have often thought that they might have used you a little better,” said Peleg, sinking his voice almost to a whisper. “Jonas uses that switch on you most too much.”
“Yes, and he has done that for the last time. I am not going to stand it any longer.”
“What are you going to do—run away from home?”
“I am going to run away from Jonas. I don’t call that my home—I never had one; but I want to get away and make my own living.”
“That’s right, my boy; that’s right. You will make a better living than you do there. Look at the clothes you wear!”
“I will have better before long,” said Nat, crossing one leg over the other when he saw that Peleg was looking steadily at the huge rent in his overalls.
“Say,” whispered Peleg, getting upon his feet and approaching his face close to Nat’s. “Did old Nickerson leave you any money? You need not be afraid to talk to me about that,” he continued, seeing that Nat looked down at the ground and hesitated. “They say that the old man was, or had been, powerful rich, and if he was a friend to any body in that house he ought to be to you.”
“I know he was my friend. He always had something kind to say to me.”