"Oh, I've been down for a tramp in the marsh," I said, trying to put him
off.

But Horace is a Yankee of the Yankees and loves nothing better than to
chase his friends into corners with questions, and leave them ultimately
with the impression that they are somehow less sound, sensible,
practical, than he is and he usually proves it, not because he is right,
but because he is sure, and in a world of shadowy halt-beliefs and
half-believers he is without doubts.

"What ye find down there?" asked Horace.

"Oh, I was just looking around to see how the spring was coming on."

"Hm-m," said Horace, eloquently, and when I did not reply, he continued,
"Often git out in the morning as early as this?"

"Yes," I said, "often."

"And do you find things any different now from what they would be later
in the day?"

At this the humour of the whole situation dawned on me and I began to
revive. When things grow hopelessly complicated, and we can't laugh, we
do either one of two things: we lie or we die. But if we can laugh, we
can fight! And be honest!

"Horace," I said, "I know what you are thinking about."

Horace's face remained perfectly impassive, but there was a glint of