One morning John walked over to see him, resting on stiles and gates between whiles. It was not very far; but he was good for very little now. Barrington was lying flat on his bed, Mrs. Hearn waiting on him. Wolfe was not tamed then.
“It’s going to be a race between us, I suppose, Whitney,” said he. “You look like a shadow.”
“A race?” replied Whitney, not taking him.
“In that black-plumed slow coach that carries dead men to their graves, and leaves them there. A race which of us two will have the honour of starting first. What a nice prospect! I always hated clayey soil. Fancy lying in it for ever and a day!”
“Fancy, rather, being borne on angels’ wings, and living with God in heaven for ever and ever!” cried Whitney earnestly. “Oh Barrington, fancy that.”
“You’d do for a parson,” retorted Barrington.
The interview was not satisfactory: Whitney so solemnly earnest, Wolfe so mockingly sarcastic: but they parted good friends. It was the last time they ever saw each other in life.
And thus a few more weeks went on.
Now old Frost had one most barbarous custom. And that was, letting the boys take the few days of Michaelmas holiday, or not, as the parents pleased. Naturally, very few did please. I and Tod used to go home: but that was no rule for the rest. We did not go home this year. A day or two before the time, Sir John Whitney rode over to Dyke Manor.
“You had better let the two boys come to us for Michaelmas,” he said to the Squire. “John wants to see them, and they’ll cheer us up. It’s anything but a lively house, I can tell you, Todhetley, with the poor lad lying as he is.”