CHAPTER TEN


For two weeks Flea and Flukey lived on the fat of the land. The country
afforded them haystacks, and the brooks, clear water. The children were
never happier than when Squeaky's nose was hidden in a tin can of
buttermilk, and the precious five dollars bought countless numbers of
currant buns, sugar cakes, and penny bones for Snatchet. Now Flukey
lifted his head proudly and walked with the air of a boy on the road to
fortune, and Flea kept at his side with the prince hugged close in her
arms. Through the long stretch of houseless roads Snatchet was allowed
to rove at will, and Flukey relieved his sister of her burden. By the
third day out toward the promised land the two little animals had become
firm friends, and the queer quartet walked on and on, as straight as the
crow flies, through the valleys and over the hills, wading the creeks
and ferrying the rivers, until they awoke one morning without money or
breakfast. The warm hay at night, much sunshine, and the absence of rain
had reduced the swollen joint in Flukey's knee to normal size; but that
day, as they trudged along, Flea noticed that he limped more than at any
time during their journey from Tompkins County. Even now, with hunger
staring wolf-eyed at them, there was no desire to return to Ithaca, no
thought of renewing their life in the squatter's settlement; for,
unknown to themselves, they were being swept on by a common destiny.

"Ye're gettin' lame again," said Flea after awhile, the mother-feeling
in her making her watch Flukey with concern. "Last night a-laying' in
the field didn't do ye any good. Let me lug Prince Squeaky."