Willy stared at the man without speaking. Was it to-night, or last night, or to-morrow night?
Fred had not yet opened his eyes, and the worthy farmer was obliged to shake him for half a minute before he was fairly aroused.
"Who are you? What are you here for?" repeated he.
Then the boys sat upright on the boards and looked at each other. They were both covered with a thick coating of frost, as white as if they had been out in a snowstorm. What should they say to the man? It would never do to tell him their real names, for then he would very likely know who their fathers were, and send them straight home. Dear! dear! What a pity they happened to fall asleep! And why need the man have come out there in the night with a lantern?—a man who probably had a bed of his own to sleep in.
"I—I—" said Willy, brushing the frost off his knees; and that is probably as far as he would have gone with his speech, for his tongue failed him entirely; but Fred, being afraid he might tell the whole truth,—which was a bad habit of Willy's,—gave him a sly poke in the side, as a hint to stop. Willy couldn't and wouldn't make up a wrong story; but Fred could, and there was nothing he enjoyed more.
"Well, sir," said he, clearing his throat, and looking up at the farmer with a face of baby-like innocence, "I guess you don't know me—do you? My name's Johnny Quirk, and this boy here's my brother, Sammy Quirk."
Willy drew back a little. It seemed as if he himself had been telling a lie. Ah! and wasn't it next thing to it?
"Quirk? Quirk? I don't know any Quirks round in these parts," said the farmer.
"O, we live up yonder," said Fred, pointing with his finger. "We live two miles beyond Harlow, and we were down to Cross Lots to aunt Nancy's, you see, and they sent for us to come home,—mother did. Our father's dreadful sick: they don't expect he'll get well."
"You don't say so! Poor little creeturs! And here you are out doors, sleeping on the rough boards. Come right along into the house with me, and get warm. What's the matter with your father?"