"Yes; I thought I should like to see the country."
"How old are you?"
"Fifteen."
"You'll make a smart man if you keep on."
"I hope I shall," said Walter, modestly; "but I am afraid you overrate me."
"I'll tell you what I judge from. A boy of fifteen that can get the better of Jack Mangum is smart, and no mistake."
"I hope I shall realize your prediction," returned Walter, who naturally felt pleased with the compliment. Like most boys, he liked to be considered smart, although he did not allow himself to be puffed up by inordinate ideas of his own importance, as is the case with many of his age.
While this conversation was going on, they had been walking towards the farm-house in which Peter Holcomb lived. It was an humble one-story building, with an attic above. On each side of it were broad fields, some under cultivation; and there was an appearance of thrift and comfort despite the smallness of the house.
"Come in," said Peter, leading the way. "John," he added, addressing the hired man, who had accompanied him, "you may go into the potato field and hoe. I'll be out directly."
Walter followed him into a broad, low room,—the kitchen,—in which Mrs. Holcomb, a pleasant looking woman, was engaged in cooking.