I declare I
thought they'd trample ye 'fore ye could git yer eye unsot."
Trove made no answer.
"That air gal had a mighty power in her eye," Thurst went on.
"When I see her totin' you off las' night I says t' the boys, says
I, 'Sid is goin' t' git stepped on. He ain't never goin' t' be the
same boy ag'in.'"
The boy held his peace, and for days neither ridicule nor
excitement--save only for the time they lasted--were able to bring
him out of his dream.
That night they came to wild country, where men and cattle lay down
to rest by the roadway--a thing Trove enjoyed. In the wagon were
bread and butter and boiled eggs and tea and doughnuts and cake and
dried herring. The men built fires and made tea and ate their
suppers, and sang, as the night fell, those olden ballads of the
frontier--"Barbara Allen," "Bonaparte's Dream," or the "Drover's
Daughter."
For days they were driving in the wild country. At bedtime each
wound himself in a blanket and lay down to rest, beneath a rude
lean-to if it were raining, but mostly under the stars. On this
journey Trove got his habit of sleeping, out-of-doors in fair
weather. After it, save in midwinter, walls seemed to weary and
roofs to smother him.
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