Willy rose to his feet, promptly.
"Look up here and show us your eyes, Billy. I've just thought of something. How do I know but you're sound asleep this minute? Generally sleep with your eyes open—don't you—and walk round too, just the same?"
Fred said this with a cruel laugh. He knew Willy was very sensitive on the subject of sleep-walking, and he was quite willing to hurt his feelings. Why shouldn't he be? Hadn't Willy hurt his feelings by making those cutting remarks in regard to music? As for the Golden Rule, Master Fred was not the boy to trouble himself about that; not in the least.
"I haven't walked in my sleep since I was a small boy," said Willy, trying his best to force back the tears; "and I don't think it's fair to plague me about it now."
"Well, then, you needn't plague me for not keeping step to your old whistling. If you want to know what the reason is I can't keep step, I'll tell you; it's because my feet are sore. They've been tender ever since I blistered 'em last summer."
Willy was too polite this time, or perhaps too sleepy, to contradict.
It did seem as if the road to Harlow was the longest, and the hills the steepest, ever known.
"Call it twelve miles—it's twenty!" said Fred, beginning to limp.
"Would be twenty-five," said Willy, "if the hills were rolled out smooth."
They trudged on as bravely as they could, but, in spite of the cold, had to stop now and then to rest, and by the time they had gone eight miles it seemed as if they could hold out no longer.