"Yes," said Willy, "and we need red shirts for that. I never chopped a tree's I know of. Could, though, if I had a sharp axe. Guess I could, I mean,—I mean if the tree wasn't too big!"
"O, we shan't chop 'em ourselves," said Fred, spitting grandly. "Wasn't my father a lumberman once, and got rich by it? But did he ever cut down a tree? What's the use? Hire men, you know."
"O!" exclaimed Willy. But a gleam of common sense striking him next moment, he added, "but the money; where'll we get that?"
"O, we'll get it after a while," replied Fred, vaguely. "My father was a poor boy once. Fact! I've heard him tell about it. Nothing but tow-cloth breeches, and wale-cloth jacket, off there to Groton. And he made butter tubs and potash tubs, sir. And he took his pay in beaver skins. And then he went afoot to Boston, and he rolled a barrel of lime round the Falls, sir. I've heard him tell it five million times. And my aunt Tempy, she rode a-horseback three hundred miles to Concord.—O, poh! there's lots of ways to make money, if you try. And once he took his pay in potash,—my father did; and he sold tobacco. O, there's ways enough to make money if you keep your eyes open; that's what my father says."
Willy's eyes were open enough, if that were all. At any rate, he was trying his very best to keep them open. Half of his mind was sleepy, and half of it very wide awake indeed. There was something so inspiring in Fred's confident tone. Rather misty his plans might be as yet; but hadn't Willy heard, ever since he could remember, that people were sure to succeed if they were only "up and doing?"
"Come, let's start," said he, rising eagerly, as the bell rang for nine. "If we are going to the Forks we must go to Harlow first; I know that much."
And turning the corner at the left, the two wise little pilgrims set out upon their travels,—
"Strange countries for to see."