After a moment of silence he exclaimed:
"Gosh! It's awful lonesome here! Gee whittaker! this is the worst place I ever saw!"
I tried to think of something that I could say for it.
"We have got a new corn sheller," I said, rather timidly.
"I don't care about your corn shellers," he answered with a look of scorn.
He took a little yellow paper-covered book from his pocket and began to read to himself.
I felt thoroughly ashamed of the place and sat near him and, for a time, said nothing as he read.
"What's that?" I ventured to ask by and by.
"A story," he answered. "I met that ragged ol' woman in the road t'other day an' she give me a lot of 'em an' showed me the pictures an' I got to readin' 'em. Don't you tell anybody 'cause my ol' dad hates stories an' he'd lick me 'til I couldn't stan' if he knew I was readin' 'em."
I begged him to read out loud and he read from a tale of two robbers named Thunderbolt and Lightfoot who lived in a cave in the mountains. They were bold, free, swearing men who rode beautiful horses at a wild gallop and carried guns and used them freely and with unerring skill, and helped themselves to what they wanted.