Tommy suppressed a strong desire to whoop; the spirit of the lad was so manifest; his earnestness so marked. But, as calmly as possible, he said, "Don't worry on that score, William, a rest will do you good. Besides, if you go where Mr. Whimple wants you to, you'll not miss a great deal. I know the boys in that family. They're clean; they have a good library, and—oh well, you go! Remember the proverb: 'It's better to go slow sometimes, than to hustle all the time.'"
William was back at work two weeks before Lucien, who, on leaving the hospital, had also gone to the country. The boys greeted each other cordially the day Lucien returned, and spent some time, on the first opportunity afforded, in recounting their experiences. Lucien told his in a plain, matter-of-fact way, and declared he was immensely relieved to be back again.
"Well," said William, when it came to his turn, "I'm glad to be back too. Not that I didn't like it. Say, after the first day, I enjoyed ev'ry minute. I went to the Millers' farm at Varency, in Haldmand County, and maybe they ain't THE PEOPLE. B'lieve me—well—say, honest, Lucien, all the fool things I uster think about farmers, callin' 'em 'Rubes' and 'Hayseeds,' and such like, and about their work and houses and everything, makes me feel like kicking myself from here to home, and that's quite a walk. If I was oner them kind that wakes up in the night and thinks about the past, I'd blush in the dark for the fool I was. But when I falls asleep it's me's a log till somebody yells in my ear that breakfast's ready. Anyway, what I used to think about farmers is buried deep, with a lot more foolish truck I've been getting rid of this last few weeks.
"Say, there's three fellows there, Emerson, Laird, and George, and every one of 'em's over six feet, and wide too, and smart, uh! Laird, he's a schoolmaster already, and you'd orter hear him telling stories about them old Romans and Greeks, and explainin' things that a dub like me's sure to get stuck on. The other two they say one schoolmaster to a family's enough, and it's them sticking to the farm, and they ain't no slouches on farming neither. They've read an awful lot, and attended lectures, and got things down fine. They doctor the horses and cattle when they're sick, and, unless they break a leg or something like that, they doctor themselves too. Emerson, he's a swell re-citer. Honest, Lucien, he'd make you laugh, or cry, or anything, with the pieces he knows by heart, let alone what he can do with pieces he ain't never seen before when he reads 'em out for the first time. And George, he can clog-dance, and play the banjo like a pro-fessional. And the girls are smart too; there's four of 'em. Gee! I thought I'd have to go home long before two weeks was up, they were so kind to me. The boys and their Dad—they always called him that—uster work like blazes from daylight, and often before, right on until evenings, and then we'd sit around on the porch after supper, and—and——" he broke off abruptly.
"Yes?" said Lucien, quietly, after a moment's silence.
"Say, Lucien, did you ever get a hunch all of a sudden, just when you're enjoyin' yourself, that it'll never be the same again?"
Lucien answered with a prim, "Oh, yes—sometimes."
William went on, "Don't it grip your heart—don't it? We'd be sitting there—the house is built on pretty high ground, and on one side there's quite a valley, with a little stream running through it; they call it a river, but it ain't; and lots of big trees, and some willows. And our old friend, the moon, would be glummerin' around, and making paths on the water, and you'd hear the frogs, and crickets, and sometimes the creaking that the wagons would make as they passed. That's all; there wouldn't be another sound for a while, and then Emerson'd begin to recite, or George would play the banjo, or Laird would tell us stories about them old fighters long ago. And all of 'em know the names of the stars—whatjer think of that?—and they'd talk about them like they were old friends, especially their Dad, for he came from Scotland and was a sailor. Oh! it was great—great. Then some one would begin to sing, and everybody would join in the chorus. First, they'd sing somer the new songs; then the comic ones; then it would be 'Annie Laurie,' 'Will ye no come back again,' 'The Low-backed Car,' 'Willie, we have missed you,' 'Nellie Grey,' 'My Old Kentucky Home'—all the old-timers. I'd join in too, and one night when we were singing 'Will ye no come back again,' that think tank of mine got outer gear someway, and starts a hammerin' on one thought: 'It'll never be the same again—never—never—never,' and it made me feel bad, I tell you, but I went on singing. I had that kinder feeling three or four times after. It sounds crazy, don't it, Lucien? but, oh, it's true, it's true! But, don't you forget it, I had a bully time. I don't know when I really liked it most; in the early morning, when everything's bright and fresh, or at night, when it's still, like I'm tellin' you. There's one thing I noticed about the nights, too, that got me going."
"What's that?"
"The stars. Say, Lucien, they seem to be so much closer than they do in the city; and more of 'em: that's because there ain't so many buildings, and you can see more sky. Sally used to say——"