"You mustn't violate the rules, Dolly," said Pa, as we crossed the bridge in the bubble, going home. "You know perfectly well that I can't say 'no' to these tramps—"
"He wasn't a tramp," said I.
"A perfect hobo," answered Pa. "I know the type well. I have to let Burns handle them."
"He was very graceful," said I.
"Any lineman is," replied Pa. "They have the best exercise in the world. If he steals anything, you're responsible, my dear."
I supposed the incident to be closed with my statement that he had nice eyes, and Pa's sniff; but, in a few days, Pa, who watches the men like a cat, surprised me by saying that my graceful hobo was all right.
"He gathered up and saved three dollars' worth of beeswax the other men were wasting, the first day," said Pa. "Melted and strained and put it in the right place without asking any questions. And then he borrowed a blow-torch and an iron, and began practising soldering connections. He looks good to me."
"Me, too," said I.
"Blessed be the hobo," said the Colonel, "for he shall reach paradise!"
It seems strange, now, to think of my hearing these things unmoved. The dreadful humiliation to which Billy was subjected, the noble fortitude with which he bore it, and the splendid way in which he uplifted the menial tasks to which he was assigned, have always reminded me of Sir Gareth serving as a scullion in Arthur's kitchen. It is not alone in the chronicles of chivalry—but I must hasten this narrative.