“Put it back, Dick! Go put it back!” Fred said, firmly, his eyes averted.
The boy stared, a blended expression of surprise and keen disappointment capturing his features.
“Do you really mean it, Fred?” he asked, his lip falling, the pail hanging motionless at his side.
“Yes, it is not ours,” the other said. “Put it back before they see you, and then I'll—I'll try to explain what I mean.”
The boy swore under his breath, and for a moment he stood gloweringly sullen, but at the third command of his companion he retreated to the fence and dropped the pail into its place. Then he came back, his head hanging, his face still dark with disappointment.
“Huh!” he grunted, and started on without waiting to see if Fred was ready to go. Walton followed, and presently caught up with him.
“I'm not a preacher, Dick,” he began, with a forced laugh, which was intended as an opening wedge to the boy's displeasure, “I'm not one bit better than you are. I've stolen a farmer's watermelons by the light of the moon, and climbed his June apple-trees, and filled my pocket with his prize fruit, and heartily enjoyed it; but somehow I feel differently now. Dick. I'm older than you are, and reckless living has got me down and stamped all hope out of me. I'm fighting for my life. I'm swimming in a strange, swift stream, and my strength is almost gone, but I have grasped at a straw; it may hold me up, it may not; but I hope it will. That straw is the determination to live right—absolutely right—from now on, no matter what it costs. I've done great wrong, and I'm sick with the very thought of it. I want to try to do what is right, and if I could influence you to feel as I feel about these things, I'd like it mightily; it would strengthen me in my course. Two can succeed better, even at a thing like that, than one.”
“But I'm starving!” the boy whimpered. “The world wasn't made for anybody to starve in. The birds up there in the trees don't starve, and God gave them as good right to live as you or me. Huh! when that beefy chump back there sows his wheat they watch him with their keen eyes from their nests in the trees, and when his hulking back is turned they chirp with glee and pounce down on his seed and take it and flutter away with it in the sunshine.”
“Dick, you are a bloody anarchist!” Walton laughed gently as he placed his hand affectionately on the boy's shoulder.
“I don't know whether I am or not,” Warren retorted, still ruffled. “But the blamed bucket of grub may stay where it is. I wanted it for your sake as much as mine, but I sha'n't ask you to sit down to other men's dinner if you are going to ask the blessing over it. But you are too dang particular. At least, I've got as much right to the stuff as they have, for they can go home and get more, and I can't.”