"There are some famous mountains in your native State, New Hampshire, are there not, Tom?"
"Yes; but I have only seen them from a distance. They are not above thirty miles away from where I was born; but poor people don't travel in search of scenery, Mr. Ferguson."
"No, my lad, and there's another thing I have noticed. We don't care much for the curiosities that are near us. The people about here, if there are any settled inhabitants, care nothing about the mountains, I doubt."
"That is true. In our village at home there is an old man nearly eighty years old who has never visited the mountains, though he has lived near them all his life."
"I can well believe it, my lad. But what is that?"
The sound which elicited this exclamation was a loud "Hollo!" evidently proceeding from some one in their rear.
Both Tom and the Scotchman turned, and their eyes rested on a horseman evidently spurring forward to overtake them. Tom, who was driving, reined in the horse, and brought him to a stop. The horseman was soon even with them.
He was evidently a Yankee. All Yankees do not carry about with them an unmistakable certificate of their origin, but Ebenezer Onthank was a typical New Englander. His face was long and thin, his expression shrewd and good-natured, his limbs were long and ungainly. In later life, with the addition of forty or fifty pounds of flesh, he would be much improved in appearance.
"Good-morning, gentlemen," said he. "It seems kinder good to see a human face again. It ain't very populous round here, is it?"
"We haven't seen any large towns," said Tom, smiling.