CHAPTER XI.
TO THE FORKS.
Willy started upon the run; but Fred, as soon as he could overtake him, and speak for puffing, exclaimed,—
"Now, Will Parlin, what's the use? We've got a good start, and let's take it fair and easy."
This was the most sensible remark Fred had made for the evening. Lazy and good-for-nothing as he was, he had spoken the truth for once. If they were ever to arrive at the Forks, they were likely to do it much sooner by walking than running. Willy did not understand this. Being as lithe as a young deer, he preferred "bounding over the plains" to lagging along with such a slow walker as Fred.
The town of Harlow was twelve miles away, and it was Fred's opinion that they should reach it in season for an early breakfast.
"I've got two dollars in my pocket," said he, "and I guess we shan't starve this fall."
Willy thought of the eighteen cents he had been six weeks in saving, but was ashamed to speak of such a small sum.
"Well, we shan't get to Harlow, or any where else, till day after to-morrow afternoon, if you don't hurry up," said he, impatiently. "You say you can't run, but I should think you might do as much as to march. Now, come,—left, foot out,—while I whistle."
Fred tried his best, but he was one of the few boys born with "no music in his soul," and he could not keep step.