“I don’t understand you,” said Burnett, coldly.
“I mean, why can’t we go together? We shall find it more social.”
“I will think of it,” said Burnett, curtly.
Tom was pleased with the appearance and manner of their fellow room-mate, who gave his name as Peter Brush. He was not a man of education, but he seemed good-natured and gifted with a fund of common sense. He was a practical hunter, was familiar with the great middle region over which they must pass on their way to California, and told Tom a good many stories of his adventures upon the plains.
“Have you ever been to California?” asked Tom.
“There you’ve got me,” answered Mr. Brush. “I’ve been as far as Utah, but I haven’t been any farther. I ’spose I should have gone, but my wife was kind of sickly, and I didn’t want to be gone so long. Now she’s dead, and I’ve got nothing to tie me down.”
“Haven’t you any children?” asked our hero.
“Yes, I’ve got a youngster about thirteen. I’ve left him at school in St. Louis. He’s stayin’ with an uncle—his mother’s brother. I want him to have more learnin’ than his father. As for me, I never attended school but two years, and the most I can do is to read and write, and I’m no great shakes at either. But that’s no reason why little Ben shouldn’t be a scholar. Have you been to school much?”
“Considerably,” answered Tom.
“And I suppose you’re a good hand at writin’ an’ cipherin’, and so on?”