Willy started upon the run; but Fred, as soon as he could overtake him, and speak for puffing, exclaimed, ­

“Now, Will Parlin, what’s the use?  We’ve got a good start, and let’s take it fair and easy.”

This was the most sensible remark Fred had made for the evening.  Lazy and good-for-nothing as he was, he had spoken the truth for once.  If they were ever to arrive at the Forks, they were likely to do it much sooner by walking than running.  Willy did not understand this.  Being as lithe as a young deer, he preferred “bounding over the plains” to lagging along with such a slow walker as Fred.

The town of Harlow was twelve miles away, and it was Fred’s opinion that they should reach it in season for an early breakfast.

“I’ve got two dollars in my pocket,” said he, “and I guess we shan’t starve this fall.”

Willy thought of the eighteen cents he had been six weeks in saving, but was ashamed to speak of such a small sum.

“Well, we shan’t get to Harlow, or any where else, till day after to-morrow afternoon, if you don’t hurry up,” said he, impatiently.  “You say you can’t run, but I should think you might do as much as to march.  Now, come, ­left, foot out, ­while I whistle.”

Fred tried his best, but he was one of the few boys born with “no music in his soul,” and he could not keep step.

“What’s the matter with you, Fred Chase?”

“Don’t know.  Guess you haven’t got the right tune.”

Willy stopped short in “Come, Philander,” and turned it into “Hail, Columbia;” but it made no difference.  “Roy’s Wife,” or “Fy! let us a’ to the wedding,” was as good as anything else.  Fred took long steps or short steps, just as it happened, and Willy never had understood, and could not understand now, what did ail Fred’s feet; it was very tiresome, indeed.

“Look here:  what tune have I been whistling now?  See if you know?”

“Why, that’s ­that’s ­some kind of a dancing tune.  Can’t think.  O, yes; ‘Old Hundred.’”

“Fred Chase!” thundered Willy; “that’s ’Yankee Doodle!’ Anybody that don’t know Yankee Doodle must be a fool!”

“Why, look here now:  I know Yankee Doodle as well as you do, Will Parlin, only you didn’t whistle it right!”

At another time Willy would have been quick to laugh at such an absurd remark; but now, tired as he was, it made him downright angry.  He stopped whistling, and did not speak again for five minutes.  Meanwhile he began to grow very sleepy.

“Wish we were going to battle,” said Fred at last, for the sake of breaking the silence.  “I’d like to be in a good fight; that is, if they had decent music.  I could march to a fife and drum first rate.”

“Could, hey!  Then why didn’t you ever do it?”

“Do you mean to say I don’ know how to march?  Know how as well as you do.”

“Think’s likely,” snarled Willy, “for I can’t march if I have you to march with.  Can’t keep step with anybody that ain’t bright!”

“Nor I can’t, either, Will Parlin; that’s why I can’t keep step with you.”

“Well, then, go along to the other side of the road ­will you?  I won’t have you here with your hippity-hop, hippity-hop.”

“Go to the other side of the road your own self, and see how you like it,” retorted Fred.  “I won’t have you here, with your tramp, tramp, tramp.”

Was ever anybody so provoking as Fred?  Willy had an impulse to give him a hard push; but before he could extend his arm to do it, he had forgotten what they were quarrelling about.  That strange sleepiness had drowned every other feeling, and Fred’s “tramp, tramp, tramp,” spoken in such drawling tones, had fairly caused his eyes to draw together.

“Guess I’ll drop down here side of the road, and rest a minute,” said he.

“So’ll I,” said Fred, always ready for a halt if not for a march.

But it was a cold night.  As soon as they had thrown themselves upon the faded grass they began to feel the pinchings of the frost.

“None of your dozing yet a while,” said Fred, who, though tired, was not as sleepy as Willy.  “We must push along till we get to a barn or something.”

Willy rose to his feet, promptly.

“Look up here and show us your eyes, Billy.  I’ve just thought of something.  How do I know but you’re sound asleep this minute?  Generally sleep with your eyes open ­don’t you ­and walk round too, just the same?”

Fred said this with a cruel laugh.  He knew Willy was very sensitive on the subject of sleep-walking, and he was quite willing to hurt his feelings.  Why shouldn’t he be?  Hadn’t Willy hurt his feelings by making those cutting remarks in regard to music?  As for the Golden Rule, Master Fred was not the boy to trouble himself about that; not in the least.

“I haven’t walked in my sleep since I was a small boy,” said Willy, trying his best to force back the tears; “and I don’t think it’s fair to plague me about it now.”

“Well, then, you needn’t plague me for not keeping step to your old whistling.  If you want to know what the reason is I can’t keep step, I’ll tell you; it’s because my feet are sore.  They’ve been tender ever since I blistered ’em last summer.”

Willy was too polite this time, or perhaps too sleepy, to contradict.

It did seem as if the road to Harlow was the longest, and the hills the steepest, ever known.

“Call it twelve miles ­it’s twenty!” said Fred, beginning to limp.

“Would be twenty-five,” said Willy, “if the hills were rolled out smooth.”

They trudged on as bravely as they could, but, in spite of the cold, had to stop now and then to rest, and by the time they had gone eight miles it seemed as if they could hold out no longer.

“I shouldn’t be tired if I were in your place,” said Fred; “it’s my feet, you know.”

“Here’s a barn,” exclaimed Willy, joyfully.

“Hush!” whispered cautious Fred; “don’t you see there’s a house to it, and it wouldn’t do to risk it?  Folks would find us out, sure as guns.”

A little farther on there was a hayrack at the side of the road, filled with boards; and after a short consultation the boys decided to climb into it, and “camp down a few minutes.”

“It won’t do to stay long,” said Fred, “for it must be ’most sunrise; and we should be in a pretty fix if anybody should go by and catch us.”

It was only one o’clock!  The boards were not as soft as feathers, by any means, but the boys thought they wouldn’t have minded that if they could only have had a blanket to spread over them.  More forlorn than the “babes in the wood,” they had not even the prospect that any birds would come and cover them with leaves.

As they stretched themselves upon the boards, Willy thought of his prayer.  “Now I lay me down to sleep.”  Never, since he could remember, had he gone to bed without that.  Would it do to say it now?  Would God hear him?  Ah, but would it do not to say it?  So he breathed it softly to himself, lest Fred should hear and laugh at him.

It was so cold that Fred declared he couldn’t shut his eyes, and shouldn’t dare to, either; but in less than a minute both the boys were fast asleep.

They had slept about three hours, without stirring or even dreaming, when they were suddenly wakened by the glare of a tin lantern shining in their eyes, and a gruff voice calling out, ­

“Who’s this?  How came you here?”

Willy stared at the man without speaking.  Was it to-night, or last night, or to-morrow night?

Fred had not yet opened his eyes, and the worthy farmer was obliged to shake him for half a minute before he was fairly aroused.

“Who are you?  What are you here for?” repeated he.

Then the boys sat upright on the boards and looked at each other.  They were both covered with a thick coating of frost, as white as if they had been out in a snowstorm.  What should they say to the man?  It would never do to tell him their real names, for then he would very likely know who their fathers were, and send them straight home.  Dear! dear!  What a pity they happened to fall asleep!  And why need the man have come out there in the night with a lantern? ­a man who probably had a bed of his own to sleep in.

“I ­I ­” said Willy, brushing the frost off his knees; and that is probably as far as he would have gone with his speech, for his tongue failed him entirely; but Fred, being afraid he might tell the whole truth, ­which was a bad habit of Willy’s, ­gave him a sly poke in the side, as a hint to stop.  Willy couldn’t and wouldn’t make up a wrong story; but Fred could, and there was nothing he enjoyed more.

“Well, sir,” said he, clearing his throat, and looking up at the farmer with a face of baby-like innocence, “I guess you don’t know me ­do you?  My name’s Johnny Quirk, and this boy here’s my brother, Sammy Quirk.”

Willy drew back a little.  It seemed as if he himself had been telling a lie.  Ah! and wasn’t it next thing to it?

“Quirk?  Quirk?  I don’t know any Quirks round in these parts,” said the farmer.

“O, we live up yonder,” said Fred, pointing with his finger.  “We live two miles beyond Harlow, and we were down to Cross Lots to aunt Nancy’s, you see, and they sent for us to come home, ­mother did.  Our father’s dreadful sick:  they don’t expect he’ll get well.”

“You don’t say so!  Poor little creeturs!  And here you are out doors, sleeping on the rough boards.  Come right along into the house with me, and get warm.  What’s the matter with your father?”

“Some kind of a fever; and he don’t know anything; he’s awful sick,” replied Fred, running his sleeve across his eyes.

The good farmer’s heart was touched.  He thought of his own little boys, no older than these, and how sad it would be if they should be left fatherless.

“Come in and get warm,” said he.  “It’s four o’clock, and you shall sleep in a good bed till six, and then I’ll wake you up, and give you some breakfast.”

“O, I don’t know as we can; we ought to be going,” said Fred, wiping his eyes; “father may be dead.”

“Yes, but you shall come in,” persisted the farmer; “you’re all but froze.  If ’twas my little boys, I should take it kindly in anybody that made ’em go in and get warm.  Besides, you can travel as fast again if you start off kind of comfortable.”

A good bed was so refreshing to think of that the boys did not need much urging; but Willy entered the house with downcast eyes and feelings of shame, whereas Fred could look their new friend in the face, and answer all his questions without wincing.

Mr. Johonnet thought himself a shrewd man, but he could not see into the hearts of these young children.  He liked the appearance of “Johnny Quirk,” an “open-hearted, pretty-spoken little chap, that any father might be proud of;” but “Sammy” did not please him as well; he was not so frank, or so respectful, ­seemed really to be a little sulky.  There are some boys who pass off finely before strangers, because they are not in the least bashful, and have a knack of putting on any manner they choose; and Fred was one of these.  Willy, a far nobler boy, was naturally timid before his betters; but even if he had been as bold as Fred, his conscience would never have let him say and do such untrue things.

Willy suffered.  Although he had told no lies himself, he had stood by and heard them told without correcting them.  How much better was that?  Still it seemed as if, as things were, he could not very well have helped himself.  So much for falling into bad company.  “Eggs should not dance with stones.”

“Well; I never’d have come with Fred Chase if father hadn’t whipped me ’most to death.”

And, soothed with this flimsy excuse, Willy was soon asleep again.

At six o’clock Mr. Johonnet called the little travellers to breakfast.  The coffee was very dark-colored, with molasses boiled in it, and there were fried pork, fried potatoes swimming in fat, and clammy “rye and indian bread.”  None of these dishes were very inviting to the boys, who both had excellent fare at home; and they would have made but a light meal, if it had not been for the pumpkin pie and cheese, which Mr. Johonnet asked his wife to set on the table.

“Poor children, they must eat,” said he; “for they’ve got to get home to see their sick father.”

There were so many questions to be asked, that the boys made quick work of their breakfast and hurried away.

“There, glad we’re out of that scrape,” said Fred.

“But didn’t you lie?  Why, Fred, how could you lie so?”

“H’m!  Did it up handsome ­didn’t I, though?  Wouldn’t give a red cent for you.  You haven’t the least gumption about lying.”

Willy shivered and drew away a little.  His fine nature was shocked by Fred’s coarseness and lack of principle; still, this was the boy he had chosen for an intimate friend!

“If it hadn’t been for me you’d have let the cat out of the bag,” chuckled Fred.  “You hung your head down as if you’d been stealing a sheep.”

It was three miles farther to Harlow, and Fred grumbled all the way about his sore feet.

“See that yellow house through the trees?” said he.  “That’s my uncle Diah’s; wish we could go there and rest.”

“But what’s the use to wish?” returned Willy.  “Look here, Fred; isn’t there a ford somewhere near here?”

To be sure there was.  They had forgotten that; and sometimes the ford was not fordable, and it was necessary to go round-about in order to cross a ferry.  While they were puzzling over this new dilemma, a stage-horn sounded.

“That’s the Harlow driver; he knows us,” cried Fred; “let’s hide quick.”

They concealed themselves behind some aspen trees on the bank, and “peeking” out, could see the stage-coach and its four sleek horses, about an eighth of a mile away, driving down the ferry-hill into the river.

“Good!” said Willy; “there’s the ford, and now we know.  And the water isn’t up to the horses’ knees; so we can cross well enough.”

“Yes, and get our breeches wet,” groaned Fred.

“O, that’s nothing.  Lumbermen don’t mind wet breeches,” said Willy, cheerily.

“Lumbermen?  Who said we were lumbermen?  I shan’t try it yet a while; my feet are too plaguy sore!”

“Shan’t try what?”

“Well, nothing, I guess,” yawned Fred; “lumber nor nothing else.”

The stage had passed, by this time, and they were walking towards the ford.  When they reached it, Willy, nothing daunted, drew off his stockings and shoes, and began to roll up his pantaloons.

“Look here, Billy; if you see any fun in this business, I don’t!”

“Fun?  O, but we don’t spect that, you know,” said heroic Willy, stepping into the stream.

“Cold as ice, I know by the way you cringe,” said lazy Fred, who had not yet untied his shoes.

“Come on, Fred; who minds the cold?”

“Now wait a minute, Billy.  I hadn’t got through talking.  I’m not going to kill myself for nothing; I want some fun out of it.”

“Do come on and behave yourself,” called back Willy; “when we get rich we’ll have the fun.”

“Well, go and get rich then,” cried Fred; “I shan’t stir another step!  My father’s got money enough, and I needn’t turn my hand over.”

Willy stopped short.

“But you are going to the Forks with me?”

“Who said I was?”

“Why, you said so, yourself.  You were the one that put it in my head.”

“O, that was only talk.  I didn’t mean anything.”

Willy turned square round in the water, and glared at Fred, with eyes that seemed to shoot sparks of fire.

“Yes ­well, yes, I did kind of mean to, too,” cried Fred, shrinking under the gaze; “but I’ve got awful sick of it.”

“Who called me a SNEAK?” exclaimed Willy, his voice shaking with wrath.  “Who called me my mamma’s cry-baby?  Who said he spected I’d back out?”

“But you see, Billy, my feet!”

Willy, whose own feet were nearly freezing, replied by a sniff of contempt.  He planted himself on a rock in the middle of the river, and awaited the rest of Fred’s speech.

“You know I’ve got folks living this side, back there a piece ­my uncle Diah.  That’s where I’ll go.  They’ll let me make a visit, and carry me home:  they did it last spring.”

“And what about me, Fred Chase?”

“You?  Why, you may go where you’re a mind to.”

“What?  Me, that you coaxed so to come?”

Fred quailed before the look and the tone.

“Well, I’d take you to uncle Diah’s, Willy, only ­well ­I can’t very well, that’s all.”

Willy suddenly turned his back, and cleared the stream with one bound.