with a sigh of mingled content and regret, David rose from the table.
“Want me to hook up for you, Mr. Brumble?” he asked, moved to show his gratitude for the hospitality extended.
“Why, yes, Dave; wish you would. My back is sorter lame to-day. Land o’ livin’,” he commented after David had gone to the barn, “but that boy swallered them potaters like they wuz so many pills!”
“Poor Mrs. Dunne!” sighed M’ri. “I am afraid it’s all she can do to keep a very small pot boiling. I am glad she sent the sorghum, so I could have an excuse for sending the eggs.”
“She hain’t poor so long as she hez a young sprout like Dave a-growin’ up. We used to call Peter Dunne ‘Old Hickory,’ but Dave, he’s second-growth hickory. He’s the kind to bend and not break. Jest you wait till he’s seasoned onct.”
After she had packed a pail of ice cream for David, gathered some flowers for Ziny, and made out a memorandum of supplies for Barnabas to get in town, M’ri set out on her errand of mercy.
The “hooking up” accomplished, David, laden with a tin pail in each hand and carrying in his pocket a drawing of black tea for his mother to sample, made his way through sheep-dotted pastures to Beechum’s woods, and thence along the bank of the River Rood. Presently he spied a young man standing knee-deep in the stream in the patient pose peculiar to fishermen.
“Catch anything?” called David eagerly.
The man turned and came to shore. He wore rubber hip boots, dark trousers, a blue flannel shirt, and a wide-brimmed hat. His eyes, blue and straight-gazing, rested reminiscently upon the lad.
“No,” he replied calmly. “I didn’t intend to catch anything. What is your name?”
“David Dunne.”
The man meditated.
“You must be about twelve years old.”
“How did you know?”
“I am a good guesser. What have you got in your pail?”
“Which one?”
“Both.”
“Thought you were a good guesser.”
The youth laughed.
“You’ll do, David. Let me think–where did you come from just now?”
“From Brumble’s.”
“It’s ice cream you’ve got in your pail,” he said assuredly.
“That’s just what it is!” cried the boy in astonishment, “and there’s eggs in the other pail.”
“Let’s have a look at the ice cream.”
David lifted the cover.
“It looks like butter,” declared the stranger.
“It don’t taste like butter,” was the indignant rejoinder. “Miss M’ri makes the best cream of any one in the country.”
“I knew that, my young friend, before you did. It’s a long time since I had any, though. Will you sell it to me, David? I will give you half a dollar for it.”
Half a dollar! His mother had to work all day to earn that amount. The ice cream was not his–not entirely. Miss M’ri had sent it to his mother. Still–
“’T will melt anyway before I get home,” he argued aloud and persuasively.
“Of course it will,” asserted the would-be purchaser.
David surrendered the pail, and after much protestation consented to receive the piece of money which the young man pressed upon him.
“You’ll have to help me eat it now; there’s no pleasure in eating ice cream alone.”
“We haven’t any spoons,” commented the boy dubiously.
“We will go to my house and eat it.”
“Where do you live?” asked David in surprise.
“Just around the bend of the river here.”
David’s freckles darkened. He didn’t like to be made game of by older people, for then there was no redress.
“There isn’t any house within two miles of here,” he said shortly.
“What’ll you bet? Half a dollar?”
“No,” replied David resolutely.
“Well, come and see.”
David followed his new acquaintance around the wooded bank. The river was full of surprises to-day. In midstream he saw what looked to him like a big raft supporting a small house.
“That’s my shanty boat,” explained the young man, as he shoved a rowboat from shore. “Jump in, my boy.”
“Do you live in it all the time?” asked David, watching with admiration the easy but forceful pull on the oars.
“No; I am on a little fishing and hunting expedition.”
“Can’t kill anything now,” said the boy, a derisive smile flickering over his features.
“I am not hunting to kill, my lad. I am hunting old scenes and memories of other days. I used to live about here. I ran away eight years ago when I was just your age.”
“What is your name?” asked David interestedly.
“Joe Forbes.”
“Oh,” was the eager rejoinder. “I know. You are Deacon Forbes’ wild son that ran away.”
“So that’s how I am known around here, is it? Well, I’ve come back, to settle up my father’s estate.”
“What did you run away for?” inquired David.
“Combination of too much stepmother and a roving spirit, I guess. Here we are.”
He sprang on the platform of the shanty boat and helped David on board. The boy inspected this novel house in wonder while his host set saucers and spoons on the table.
“Would you mind,” asked David in an embarrassed manner as he wistfully eyed the coveted luxury, “if I took my dishful home?”
“What’s the matter?” asked Forbes, his eyes twinkling. “Eaten too much already?”
“No; but you see my mother likes it and she hasn’t had any since last summer. I’d rather take mine to her.”
“There’s plenty left for your mother. I’ll put this pail in a bigger one and pack ice about it. Then it won’t melt.”
“But you paid me for it,” protested David.
“That’s all right. Your mother was pretty good to me when I was a boy. She dried my mop of hair for me once so my stepmother would not
