“Gut morning, poy,” he said, wiping his red face with his sleeve; “what you do here?”
“I am going to Charlestown,” I answered.
“Ach!” he cried, “dot is pad. Mein poy, he run avay. You are ein gut poy, I know. I vill pay ein gut price to help me vit mein wagon—ja.”
“Where are you going?” I demanded, with a sudden wavering.
“Up country—pack country. You know der Proad River—yes?”
No, I did not. But a longing came upon me for the old backwoods life, with its freedom and self-reliance, and a hatred for this steaming country of heat and violent storms, and artificiality and pomp. And I had a desire, even at that age, to make my own way in the world.
“What will you give me?” I asked.
At that he put his finger to his nose.
“Thruppence py the day.”
I shook my head. He looked at me queerly.