"I am going to Charlestown," I answered.

"Ach!" he cried, "dot is pad. Mein poy, he run avay. You are ein gut
poy, I know. I vill pay ein gut price to help me vit mein wagon--ja."

"Where are you going?" I demanded, with a sudden wavering.

"Up country--pack country. You know der Proad River--yes?"

No, I did not. But a longing came upon me for the old backwoods life,
with its freedom and self-reliance, and a hatred for this steaming
country of heat and violent storms, and artificiality and pomp. And I
had a desire, even at that age, to make my own way in the world.

"What will you give me?" I asked.

At that he put his finger to his nose.

"Thruppence py the day."

I shook my head. He looked at me queerly.

"How old you pe,--twelve, yes?"

Now I had no notion of telling him. So I said: "Is this the Charlestown
road?"

"Fourpence!" he cried, "dot is riches."

"I will go for sixpence," I answered.