Thirty miles were travelled that day. At night Israel stole into a barn,
in hopes of finding straw or hay for a bed. But it was spring; all the
hay and straw were gone. So after groping about in the dark, he was fain
to content himself with an undressed sheep-skin. Cold, hungry,
foot-sore, weary, and impatient for the morning dawn, Israel drearily
dozed out the night.

By the first peep of day coming through the chinks of the barn, he was
up and abroad. Ere long finding himself in the suburbs of a considerable
village, the better to guard against detection he supplied himself with
a rude crutch, and feigning himself a cripple, hobbled straight through
the town, followed by a perverse-minded cur, which kept up a continual,
spiteful, suspicious bark. Israel longed to have one good rap at him
with his crutch, but thought it would hardly look in character for a
poor old cripple to be vindictive.

A few miles further, and he came to a second village. While hobbling
through its main street, as through the former one, he was suddenly
stopped by a genuine cripple, all in tatters, too, who, with a
sympathetic air, inquired after the cause of his lameness.

"White swelling," says Israel.

"That's just my ailing," wheezed the other; "but you're lamer than me,"
he added with a forlorn sort of self-satisfaction, critically eyeing
Israel's limp as once, more he stumped on his way, not liking to tarry
too long.

"But halloo, what's your hurry, friend?" seeing Israel fairly