“A little. I feel hungry. Don't you think we can eat the bread now?”
“Yes, we'd better. I feel kind o' gone myself.”
They sat down under a tree, and Abner divided the bread fairly.
“You ought to have more than I,” protested Herbert. “You're bigger than I, and need more.”
“Never mind that! You'll need it to keep up your strength.”
Abner was not naturally unselfish, but he was manly enough to feel that he ought to be generous and kind to a boy so much smaller, and he felt repaid for his self-denial by noticing the evident relish with which Herbert ate his allowance of bread, even to the smallest crumb.
They found a spring, which yielded them a cool, refreshing draught, and soon were on their way once more. They had proceeded perhaps two miles further, when the rumbling of wheels was heard behind them, and a farm wagon soon came up alongside. The driver was a man of about thirty—sunburned and roughly clad.
“Whoa, there,” he said.
The horse stopped.
“Where are you two goin'?” he asked.