admiration for them. John's heart was sadly torn
between them. Yet he was secretly glad to learn from his mother that
his Uncle Union's house in Haverhill had tall columns, green blinds on
the white woodwork, and a wide hall running down the centre. For it
made him feel more at home at the Culpeppers'. But when the Hendricks'
piano came, after they moved into the big house, the boy's heart was
opened afresh; and he spent hours with Bob Hendricks at the piano,
when he knew he would be welcome at the Culpeppers'. He leased his
town herd in the summer to Jimmie Fernald--giving him the right to
take the cows to the commons around town upon the payment of five
dollars a month to John for keeping out of the business, and passing
Jimmie good-will. In the meantime, by day, John worked his team, and
hired two others and took contracts for digging cellars. At nights he
went to the country with his concertina and played for dances, making
two dollars a night, and General Hendricks for years pointed with
pride to the fact that when the Exchange National Bank of Sycamore
Ridge opened for business the first morning, standing at the head of
the line of depositors was John Barclay, with his concertina under his
arm, just as he had returned from a country dance at daylight, waiting
to be first in line, with $178.53 in his pocket to deposit. That
deposit slip, framed, still hangs over the desk in the office of the
president of the bank, and when John Barclay became famous, it was
always a part of the "Art Loan Exhibit," held by the women in Barclay
Memorial Hall.

That summer of '67 John capitulated to life, held his hands up for the
shackles and put on shoes in summer for the first time. Also, he only
went swimming twice--both times at night, and he bought his first box
of paper collars and his mother tried to make his neckties like those
in Dorman's store; but some way she did not get the hang of it, and
John bought a Sunday necktie of great pride, and he and his mother
agreed that it was off the tail of Joseph's coat of many colours. But
he wore it only on state occasions. At work, he made an odd figure
limping over the dirt heaps and into the excavations bossing men old
enough to be his father. He wore a serious face in those days,--for a
boy,--and his mouth was almost hard, but something burned in his eyes
that was more than ambition, though that lighted his face like a
flame, and he was always whistling or singing. At night he and