“I'm fond of fruit,” he explained. “Once, old Jake Benson caught me here—I was in his strawberries. Say, I was stiff! He most scared the life out of me, he come on me so sudden, but he only asked me what I was doing; he's all right! What did you say your name was?”
“Stephen Landray,” repeated Stephen.
The boy considered.
“There's Landray's hill, Landray's woods, Landray's race, and Landray's mill—but it ain't running any more—and Landray's fork; ever been to any of 'em?”
Stephen was forced to own that he had not.
“Well, I'll show 'em to you some day. I go to all them places often.”
Benjamin Wade was preparing to take his departure, and the smaller boy was sorry enough to see him go.
“I'll tell you, I'm coming back—maybe about this time to-morrow; and I may bring a feller or two with me. I'll show you where you be back of the arbours so as we can find you.” And he led the way to a snug hiding-place, well screened from observation. “You be here just about now to-morrow and we may happen along.”
Benjamin Wade seemed a person of perfect freedom, but one whose social obligations were numerous and pleasantly diversified. Stephen followed him to the back fence, and stood with his small wistful face pressed between the pickets, watching him from sight down the alley. The lonely little fellow was in a fever of impatience for the morrow. He wondered whom the fellers would be that Benjamin Wade would bring, and he hoped that he would not forget to come as he had promised.
Benjamin Wade was as good as his word. He appeared promptly the next day at the appointed place and hour, and with him was a small boy whom he introduced as Spike. He invited Stephen to accompany him and Spike to a swimming-hole in Landray's fork, and when Stephen declined the invitation, as he felt constrained to do, the two boys promptly left him, after making certain insulting comments on his lack of independence.