neglecting you, drop me a line and I'll be home in
three days."

"I may have to appeal to you to save me from my friends," I said, "if
Tip Pulsifer goes digging gold and Nanny Pulsifer gets religion and old
Mrs. Bolum belies her nature and forgets me. But anyway, if Captain
and I sit here at night knee-deep in dust and cobwebs, at least we can
swell our chests and talk about our brother in the city, who is
making--how much?"

"Seven dollars a week!" cried Tim. "Think of it, Mark, seven dollars a
week. That's more than you made as a soldier."

* * * * * *

"We are near the last bend, Tim. Yes--I'll say good-by to Mary for
you. I'll tell her that in the hurry you forgot her. And she will
believe me! Why didn't you go up the hill last night, instead of
sneaking off this way?--for you know you didn't forget her. That last
smoke--that's right--you and Captain and I, and our pipes. I fear she
did pass from our minds, but we had many things to talk over in those
last hours. I promise you I will go up to-night and explain. Tell
Weston about that fox on Gander Knob--of course I shall. School starts
tomorrow, else I'd be after him myself; but on Saturday we'll hie to
the mountain, Weston and Captain and I. You, Tim, shall have the skin,
a memento of the valley. I'll say good-by to Captain again, and I'll
keep the guns oiled, and Piney Carter shall have the rifle whenever he
wants it--provided he cleans it every hunting night. And I'll tell old
Mrs. Bolum--but the train is going to start. Are you sure you have
your ticket, and your check, and your lunch? Yes, I'll say good-by to
Mary for you.--Good-by, Tim!"

And Tim went around the bend.

VIII

Books! Books! Eternal, infernal books! The sun was printing over the
floor the shadow skeleton of the juniper-tree by the westerly window.
That always told me it was one o'clock. And one o'clock meant books
again--three long hours of wrangling with dull wits, of fencing with
sharper ones; three long hours of a-b-abs, of two-times-twos and
three-times-threes; hours of spelling and of parsing, hours of bounding
and describing. With it all, woven through it, now swelling, now dying
away, now broken by a shrill cry of pain or anger, was the ceaseless
buzzing of the school. There was no rest for the eye, even. The walls
were white, their glare was baneful, and through the chalk-dust mist the
rustling field of young heads sugg