“Where’s the brook he lived in?” asked Poke.
“Oh, over there!” Lon said, and jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “Some ways off. And ’twouldn’t interest you boys now—there ain’t no more William Trouts in it.” Then he rose to his feet, and his tone changed. “Look here, youngsters! Time we was movin’ along, if you don’t expect to put up here over night. You get me yarnin’ about my misspent youth, and I don’t notice how late it’s gettin’ to be.”
The club followed his example, and rose, not too willingly. The dusk had deepened, but it was still very pleasant to lounge about the dying fire.
“Well, I suppose we’ll have to go back to town,” Sam said reluctantly. “There’s school in the morning, as usual.”
“That’s so—worse luck!” growled Step.
Lon began to kick dirt upon the embers.
“No use takin’ unnecessary chances,” he remarked. “It’s powerful dry in the woods just now, and you never can tell what’d happen if a breeze should spring up and find a spark to carry. And this ain’t a good country to fight a healthy forest fire in. Too much truck jest waitin’ to burn, I tell you!”
“Huh! I’d like to see a good, ripping old fire once,” said Step. “I’ve never had the luck to be close to one.”
“Then you’ve been luckier than you know,” said Lon drily, and sent a shower of dust upon the coals.