The Twins would go into business, since their father's busy sawmill property would descend to both of them, and, as they thought it out, could not very well be divided. Plainly they must make the best of life together. It promised to be a lively existence, but a pleasant one withal.
History hoped to be a great writer some day, and Punk would be a professor of something staid and quiet, Latin most probably.
Sawed-Off and Jumbo had not made up their minds as to just what the future was to hold for them, but they agreed, that it must be something in partnership.
Sleepy had never a fancy of what coming years should bring him to do; he preferred to postpone the unpleasant task of making up his mind, and only took the trouble to hope that the future would give him something that offered plenty of time for sleeping and eating.
Late into the night the Twelve sat around a waving bonfire, their eyes twinkling at the memory of old victories and defeats, of struggles that were pleasant, whatever their outcome, just because they were struggles.
At length Sleepy got himself to his feet with much difficulty.
"Going to bed?" Jumbo sang out.
"Nope," drawled Sleepy, and disappeared into the darkness.
They all smiled at the thought of him, whom none of them respected and all of them loved.
In a space of time quite short for him, Sleepy returned with an arm-load of books—the text-books that had given him so much trouble, and would have given him more had they had the chance offered them.