“Where shall we send the stuff?” asked Joe.
The porter was at that moment announcing a train in the hotel office and Wayne caught a name.
“Send it to Gettysburg,” he said.
They stepped into the street and were at once launched upon their expedition. A shower in the early morning had laid the dust and sweetened the air; the sky was never bluer; the young leaves brightened in the sun; the horizons were wistful with the hope and faith of May. The country silence soon enwrapt them like a balm. Joe began to whistle but gave it up. He looked back upon the haze that hung above the capitol and was homesick for paved ground and the buzz of trolleys.
“It’s kind o’ lonesome,” he observed, so plaintively that Wayne laughed.
“Oh, you’ll begin to like it after a while. When you get used to travelling this way you won’t buy any more railroad tickets. I’ve read books about people who walked everywhere—all over Europe—because it’s the best way to see the country.”
“I guess we’re more likely to write home for money. I wonder if they wouldn’t give us a bite at that house over there.”
“Not much they won’t! You’ve got to be very regular at meals when you go to tramping and, besides, it isn’t ten o’clock yet.”
“It would be nice if apples were ripe. We tackled it at the wrong season for fruit. I think I could eat raw lettuce out of that garden.”
For the greater part Wayne trudged in silence. They paused now and then to rest and beside a little creek they cut themselves sticks. Morning was never so long and at eleven o’clock Joe declared himself famishing and Wayne mercifully agreed to seek food.