Together they laughed, till the very air seemed vocal with merriment.
John was the first to recover his gravity.
"I am sorry, Paul," he said, "but I must bid you good-by. They will miss me from the house. I am glad I have got acquainted with you, and I hope I shall see you again some time before very long. Good-by, Paul."
"Good-by, John."
The two boys shook hands and parted. One went in one direction, the other in the opposite.
Each looked back repeatedly till the other was out of sight. Then came over Paul once more a feeling of sadness and desolation, which the high spirits of his companion had for the time kept off. Occasionally he cast a glance backwards, to make sure that Mr. Mudge was not following him. But Paul had no cause to fear on that score. The object of his dread was already some miles distant in a different direction.
For an hour longer, Paul trudged on. He met few persons, the road not being very much frequented. He was now at least twelve miles from his starting-place, and began to feel very sensibly the effects of heat and fatigue combined. He threw himself down upon the grass under the overhanging branches of an apple-tree to rest. After his long walk repose seemed delicious, and with a feeling of exquisite enjoyment he stretched himself out at full length upon the soft turf, and closed his eyes.
Insensibly he fell asleep. How long he slept he could not tell. He was finally roused from his slumber by something cold touching his cheek. Starting up he rubbed his eyes in bewilderment, and gradually became aware that this something was the nose of a Newfoundland dog, whose keen scent had enabled him to discover the whereabouts of the small stock of provisions with which Paul had been supplied by his late companion. Fortunately he awoke in time to save its becoming the prey of its canine visitor.
"I reckon you came nigh losing your dinner," fell upon his ears in a rough but hearty tone.
At the same time he heard the noise of wheels, and looking up, beheld a specimen of a class well known throughout New England --a tin pedler. He was seated on a cart liberally stocked with articles of tin ware. From the rear depended two immense bags, one of which served as a receptacle for white rags, the other for bits of calico and whatever else may fall under the designation of "colored." His shop, for such it was, was drawn at a brisk pace by a stout horse, who in this respect presented a contrast to his master, who was long and lank. The pedler himself was a man of perhaps forty, with a face in which shrewdness and good humor seemed alike indicated. Take him for all in all, you might travel some distance without falling in with a more complete specimen of the Yankee.
"So you came nigh losing your dinner," he repeated, in a pleasant tone.
"Yes," said Paul, "I got tired and fell asleep, and I don't know when I should have waked up but for your dog."
"Yes, Boney's got a keen scent for provisions," laughed the pedler. "He's a little graspin', like his namesake. You see his real name is Bonaparte; we only call him Boney, for short."
Meanwhile he had stopped his horse. He was about to start afresh, when a thought struck him.
"Maybe you're goin' my way," said he, turning to Paul; "if you are, you're welcome to a ride."
Paul was very glad to accept the invitation.
He clambered into the cart, and took a seat behind the pedler, while Boney, who took his recent disappointment very good-naturedly, jogged on contentedly behind.
"How far are you goin'?" asked Paul's new acquaintance, as he whipped up his horse.
Paul felt a little embarrassed. If he had been acquainted with the names of any of the villages on the route he might easily have answered.
As it was, only one name occurred to him.
"I think," said he, with some hesitation, "that I shall go to New York."
"New York!" repeated the pedler, with a whistle expressive of his astonishment.
"Well, you've a journey before you.
Got any relations there?"
"No."
"No uncles, aunts, cousins, nor nothing?"
Paul shook his head.
"Then what makes you go? Haven't run away from your father and mother, hey?" asked the pedler, with a knowing look.
"I have no father nor mother," said Paul, sadly enough.
"Well, you had somebody to take care of you, I calculate. Where did you live?"
"If I tell you, you won't carry me back?" said Paul, anxiously.
"Not a bit of it. I've got too much business on hand for that."
Relieved by this assurance, Paul told his story, encouraged thereto by frequent questions from his companion, who seemed to take a lively interest in the adventures of his young companion.
"That's a capital trick you played on old Mudge," he said with a hearty laugh which almost made the tins rattle. "I don't blame you a bit for running away. I've got a story to tell you about Mrs. Mudge. She's a regular skinflint."
