“Shake!” he said, extending his hand. And we shook hands heartily.
After awhile I saw him with his hands among the grain.
“Say,” he said, “here’s a find! They haven’t threshed this grain yet. Stow some of it away in your pockets. It’s good food at a pinch without cooking.”
I had a wallet-like envelope of oil cloth which I showed him.
“Just the thing,” he said.
We rubbed the ears of grain in our hands, and secured about a quart apiece before we went to sleep that night.
On awaking I found the sun shining, the sky clear, and the weather cooler than the day previous. As there were no immediate indications of moving, we spread our blankets on the grain stack to dry. And then we had a long talk.
I told him all about Jot and his desertion, as I had never told it to any one before. There was something about him that drew me out to confide in him my inmost thoughts. He asked several questions and then, after a moment’s silence he looked me in the face, and gave one of his inward chuckles.
“What is it?” I said. “To me it seems a crying matter.”
“So it does, chum,” he said soberly; “I can understand your feelings. But you have, with all of your Yankee intelligence, a childish streak in you.”