"Supposin' you're thirsty," suggested Sam, disappointed.
"It's only fancy. You don't need drink railly. You only think you do," said the deacon, and he made some further remarks on the subject to which Sam listened discontentedly. He began to think his situation a very hard one.
"It's work—work all the time," he said to himself. "What's the good of workin' yourself to death? When I'm a man I'll work only when I want to."
Sam did not consider that there might be some difficulty in earning a living unless he were willing to work for it. The present discomfort was all he thought of.
At last, much to Sam's joy, the deacon gave the signal to return to the house.
"If you hadn't been sick, we'd have got through more," he said; "but to-morrow we must make up for lost time."
"I hope it'll rain to-morrow," thought Sam. "We can't work in the rain."
At supper the wormwood seemed to give him additional appetite.
"I'm afraid you'll make yourself sick again, Samuel," said the deacon.
"There aint no danger," said Sam, looking alarmed at the suggestion. "I feel all right now."