The boy did. "I'm feeling like a bird," said he, as they crossed through
the mountains next morning on a short cut to the Owybee. "Breakfast will
brace you up, Bolles. There'll be a cabin pretty soon after we strike the
other road. Keep thinking hard about coffee."

"I wish I could," said poor Bolles. He was forgiving himself less and
less.

Their start had been very early; as Drake bid the school-master observe,
to have nothing to detain you, nothing to eat and nothing to pack, is a
great help in journeys of haste. The warming day, and Indian Creek well
behind them, brought Drake to whistling again, but depression sat upon
the self-accusing Bolles. Even when they sighted the Owyhee road below
them, no cheerfulness waked in him; not at the nearing coffee, nor yet at
the companionable tinkle of sleigh-bells dancing faintly upward through
the bright, silent air.

"Why, if it ain't Uncle Pasco!" said Drake, peering down through a gap in
the foot-hill. "We'll get breakfast sooner than I expected. Quick! Give
me Baby Bunting!"

"Are you going to kill him?" whispered the school-master, with a beaming
countenance. And he scuffled with his pocket to hand over his hitherto
belittled weapon.

Drake considered him. "Bolles, Bolles," said he, "you have got the New
England conscience rank. Plymouth Rock is a pudding to your heart. Remind
me to pray for you first spare minute I get. Now follow me close. He'll
be much more useful to us alive."