Part 8 (1/2)
The road was rough, the wheels were rimmed with iron, and the board seat joggled unmercifully, so that the boy found it hard to answer his neighbor's endless questions without biting his tongue in two; moreover, now that he was sitting down, after walking almost steadily since early morning, he found himself almost too tired to think; but he tried to be civil, since it seemed that if his companion was kind enough to refuse payment, the least he could do was to gratify his curiosity.
”Where might you be goin', now?”
”My uncle lives in Frederickstown. His name is Lambert. Mr. Peter Lambert.”
”That so? I know Mr. Lambert. Well, I took you for a furriner.”
”I am not a foreigner.”
”Not but that you don't talk good English, only sort of care-ful like.
Like it wasn't yer natural langwidge. What part of the country might yer be from, now?”
”I have never been in this country before. My father, who-who was Mr.
Lambert's brother-in-law, was a sailor, captain, also a trader. I don't belong to any country. I have come back to work with my uncle, because my father is dead, and I have no other relatives.” The boy explained this in a dry, precise way, as if it were an answer that he had already had to make many times.
”Well! I'll be!” exclaimed the farmer, much interested. ”And what might yer name be, young feller?”
”Paul Winkler.”
After a short pause, during which Paul fervently hoped that the catechism was over, his companion asked again.
”And why was you askin' me where that other road went to?”
The boy smiled, and shook his head.
”I don't know.”
”Jes' for curiosity?”
”Yes.”
”Hum. How old might you be?”
”Seventeen.”
”Yer a well grown lad for yer years. I should have taken yer to be older.”
This time Paul broke the silence that followed.
”What is the City like?”
”Like? Why like any other city. Lots of houses, lots of streets, lots of people, lots of noise. I'm a countryman myself, and don't have much hankerin' for the big towns. Though there's my son now, my second boy, he can't stand the farm. No, he has to be off to the city. I suppose that's the way all you youngsters are feeling nowadays. What you're after is always somewhere different from where the Lord put you.
Opportunity-that's what my boy's forever chatterin' about-you got to get where you have opportunities. I says to him, 'Well, Tom, what is it ye're after?' 'Independence, Dad,' says he, 'Like George Was.h.i.+ngton.' 'A good thing,' says I. 'And what do ye call independence?' Well, sir, we argue away for hours, and for the life of me I can't see that he ain't just about the most _de_pendant feller I know. No sir, when ye live the sort of life I live ye get plenty time to think, and I tell ye when ye sift down to rock bottom just what ye _do_ want, and don't dress it up in a lot of fine words, ye find that there's precious little as really matters to ye, that ye can't get without having to trot all over the country after it.”
Notwithstanding his companion's challenging tone, and evident eagerness for further discussion, Paul made no reply to this speech.
They had now gained the top of a hill; and at last the comfortable lights of Frederickstown shone through the dusk.