“That is so, Mr. Brush.”
“Seems to me, Tom, you are lookin’ rather sober. Is there anything a weighin’ on your mind?”
“Yes, Mr. Brush, I was thinking of my mother and sister.”
“Then if you are thinkin’ of them, you ought to look cheerful. If I had a mother and sister to think of I’d give a thousand dollars down, though I am a poor man.”
“You don’t quite understand me, Mr. Brush. How do I know that they are well? They may be sick, or dead,” and our hero’s lip quivered.
“Don’t go to borrering trouble, Tom. It ain’t no use. I’ll bet you a dollar they’re well, and as lively as crickets.”
“If I only knew that! But there isn’t any chance of my writing to them, or hearing from them, in this great wilderness.”
“That’s so, Tom. There don’t seem to be any post-offices near by, that’s a fact.”
“I am afraid mother will worry about me, when she has to go so long without getting a letter. She’ll think I’m either sick or dead.”
“I don’t b’lieve she will. She will trust to Providence, that is, if she’s a religious woman, and goes to church, as most mothers do.”