“Yer a well grown lad for yer years. I should have taken yer to be older.”
This time Paul broke the silence that followed.
“What is the City like?”
“Like? Why like any other city. Lots of houses, lots of streets, lots of people, lots of noise. I’m a countryman myself, and don’t have much hankerin’ for the big towns. Though there’s my son now, my second boy, he can’t stand the farm. No, he has to be off to the city. I suppose that’s the way all you youngsters are feeling nowadays. What you’re after is always somewhere different from where the Lord put you. Opportunity—that’s what my boy’s forever chatterin’ about—you got to get where you have opportunities. I says to him, ‘Well, Tom, what is it ye’re after?’ ‘Independence, Dad,’ says he, ‘Like George Washington.’ ‘A good thing,’ says I. ‘And what do ye call independence?’ Well, sir, we argue away for hours, and for the life of me I can’t see that he ain’t just about the most dependant feller I know. No sir, when ye live the sort of life I live ye get plenty time to think, and I tell ye when ye sift down to rock bottom just what ye do want, and don’t dress it up in a lot of fine words, ye find that there’s precious little as really matters to ye, that ye can’t get without having to trot all over the country after it.”
Notwithstanding his companion’s challenging tone, and evident eagerness for further discussion, Paul made no reply to this speech.
They had now gained the top of a hill; and at last the comfortable lights of Frederickstown shone through the dusk.
“There ye are,” said the farmer pointing ahead with his whip, “and I’ve no doubt it’s a glad sight to ye, youngster. Have ye walked far?”
“Fifteen miles, I think.”
“Fifteen miles! Pretty hungry, eh?”
“Yes.”