"Yes, you are a poor one, I know; but keep on trying, and maybe you will amount to something after a while. You will never have any sense, though, any one can see with half an eye," he added, working over my legs.
"Why do you say that?" I asked, sitting up.
"Because young birds like you don't fly above the trees after dark—they keep under cover; and if you had any sense you wouldn't wander about the country the way you do at night."
"Yes," I answered; "but birds will do anything when the hawks are about."
"Yes; but there are no hawks after you."
"No; but Uncle Job."
"Uncle Job! Why, what has happened to him?"
"He's in jail in Appletop."
"Is that where you were going?"
"Yes."