a hearty breakfast, consisting of beefsteak, potatoes, corn bread, fresh butter and apple sauce, made abner's eyes glisten, for he had never in his remembrance sat down at home to a meal equally attractive. he wielded his knife and fork with an activity and energy which indicated thorough enjoyment. even herbert, though in the city his appetite had been delicate, and he had already eaten part of a loaf of bread, did excellent justice to the good things set before him. he was himself surprised at his extraordinary appetite, forgetting the stimulating effect of a seven-mile walk.
after breakfast they set out again on their tramp. at sunset, having rested several hours in the middle of the day, they had accomplished twenty miles. abner could have gone further, but herbert was well tired out. they obtained permission from a friendly farmer to spend the night in his barn, and retired at half-past seven. mr. reynolds would have been shocked had he known that his little son was compelled to sleep on a pile of hay, but it may truthfully be said that herbert had seldom slept as soundly or felt more refreshed.
“how did you sleep, abner?” he asked.
“like a top. how was it with you, bub?”
“i didn't wake up all night,” answered the little boy.
“i wonder what dad and marm thought when they found us gone?” said abner, with a grin.
“won't they feel bad?”
“not much,” said abner. “they ain't that kind. i reckon it won't spoil their appetite.”
when they descended from the haymow, the farmer was milking his cows.
“well, youngsters,” he said, “so you're up and dressed?”
“yes, sir.”
“and ready for breakfast, i'll be bound.”
“i reckon i should feel better for eatin',” said abner, promptly.
“jest you wait till i get through milkin', and we'll see what mrs. wiggins has got for us.”
abner heard these words with joy, for he was always possessed of a good appetite.
“i say, bub, i'm glad i run away,” he remarked, aside, to herbert. “we live enough sight better than we did at home.”
leaving the boys to pursue their journey, we will return to the bereaved parents, and inquire how they bore their loss.
when mrs. barton rose to commence the labors of the day, she found that no wood was on hand for the kitchen fire.
“abner's gittin' lazier and lazier,” she soliloquized. “i'll soon have him up.”
she went to the foot of the stairs, and called “abner!” in a voice by no means low or gentle.
there was no answer.
“that boy would sleep if there was an earthquake,” she muttered. “come down here and split some wood, you lazy boy!” she cried, still louder.
again no answer.
“he hears, fast enough, but he don't want to work. i'll soon have him down.”
she ascended the stairs, two steps at a time, and opened the door of her son's room.
if abner had been in bed his mother would have pulled him out, for her arm was vigorous, but the bed was empty.
“well, i vum!” she ejaculated, in surprise. “ef that boy isn't up already. that's a new wrinkle. and the little boy gone, too. what can it mean?”
it occurred to mrs. barton that abner and herbert might have got up early to go fishing, though she had never known him to make so early a start before.
“i reckon breakfast'll bring 'em round,” she said to herself. “i reckon i shall have to split the wood myself.”
in half an hour breakfast was ready. it was of a very simple character, for the family resources were limited. mr. barton came downstairs, and looked discontentedly at the repast provided.
“this is a pretty mean breakfast, mrs. b.,” he remarked. “where's your meat and taters?”
“there's plenty of 'em in the market,” answered mrs. barton.
“then, why didn't you buy some?”
“you ought to know, joel barton. you give me the money, and i'll see that you have a good breakfast.”
“where's all the money that man ford gave you?”
“where is it? it's eaten up, mr. barton, and you did your share. ef you'd had your way, you'd have spent some of the money for drink.”
“why don't he send you some more, then?”
“ef you see him anywheres, you'd better ask him. it's your business to provide me with money; you can't expect one boy's board to support the whole family.”
“it's strange where them boys are gone,” said joel, desirous of changing the subject. “like as not, they hid under the bed, and fooled you.”
“ef they did, i'll rout 'em out,” said mrs. barton, who thought the supposition not improbable.
once more she ascended the stairs and made an irruption into the boy's chamber. she lifted the quilt, and peered under the bed. but there were no boys there. looking about the room, however, she discovered something else. on the mantelpiece was a scrap of paper, which appeared to be so placed as to invite attention.
“what's that?” said mrs. barton to herself.
a moment later she was descending the staircase more rapidly than she had gone up just before.
“look at that,” she exclaimed, holding out a scrap of paper to joel barton.
“i don't see nothin' but a bit of paper,” said her husband.
“don't be a fool! read what it is.”
“read it aloud. i ain't got my specks.”
“the boys have run away. abner writ it. listen to this.”
rudely written on the paper, for abner was by no means a skillful penman, were these words:
“bub and i have runned away. you needn't worry. i reckon we can get along. we're going to make our fortunes. when we're rich, we'll come back. abner.”
“what do you think of that, joel barton?” demanded his wife.
joel shrugged his shoulders.
“i shan't worry much,” he said. “they'll be back by to-morrer, likely.”
“then you'll have to split some wood to-day, joel. you can't expect a delicate woman like me to do such rough work.”
“you're stronger'n i be, mrs. b.”
“perhaps you'll find i am if you don't go to work.”
“i'll do it this afternoon.”
“all right. then we'll have dinner in the even-in'. no wood, no dinner.”
“seems to me you're rather hard on me, mrs. b. i don't feel well.”
“nor you won't till you give up drinkin'.”
much against his will, mr. barton felt compelled by the stress of circumstances to do the work expected of him. it made him feel angry with abner, whom he did not miss for any other reason.
“i'll break that boy's neck when he comes back,” he muttered. “it's a shame to leave all this work for his poor, old dad.”
to-morrow came, but the boys did not. a week slipped away, and still they were missing. mrs. barton was not an affectionate mother, but it did seem lonesome without abner. as for herbert, she did not care for his absence. if willis ford did not continue to pay his board, she felt that she would rather have him away.
on the sixth day after the departure of the boys there came a surprise for mrs. barton.
as she was at work in the kitchen, she heard a loud knock at the door.
“can it be abner?” she thought. “he wouldn't knock.”
she went to the door, however, feeling rather curious as to who could be her visitor, and on opening it started in surprise to see willis ford.
“mr. ford!” she ejaculated.
“i thought i would make you a call,” answered ford. “how's the boy getting along?”
“if you mean the boy you left here,” she answered, composedly, “he's run away, and took my boy with him.”
“run away!” ejaculated ford, in dismay.
“yes; he made tracks about a week ago. he and my abner have gone off to make their fortunes.”
“why didn't you take better care of him, woman?” exclaimed ford, angrily. “it's your fault, his running away!”
“look here, ford,” retorted mrs. barton; “don't you sass me, for i won't stand it. ef it hadn't been for you, abner would be at home now.”
“i didn't mean to offend you, my dear mrs. barton,” said ford, seeing that he had made a false step. “tell me all you can, and i'll see if i can't get the boys back.”
“now you're talkin',” said mrs. barton, smoothing her ruffled plumage. “come into the house, and i'll tell you all i know.”
