exploring his pockets, Bill decided upon a restaurant where he
bought a stew and rolls for fifteen cents. Never had a supper
tasted so satisfying. After it, he strolled around the town,
feeling a pleasant warmth in his veins, a springiness to his
legs, a new song in his heart. It was so good to be free to go
where he pleased, to be his own master, if only for a stolen
hour, to keep out of sight of a cow or a plow. He wondered why he
had never done this before.

It was youth daring Fate, without show or bravado or fear;
rolling the honey under his tongue and drawing in its sweetness;
youth, that lives for the moment, that can be blind to the
threatening future, that can forget the mean past; youth slipping
along with some chewing-gum between his teeth and a warm
sensation in his stew-crammed stomach, whistling, dreaming,
happy; youth, that can, without premeditation, remain away from
home and leave udders untapped and pigs unfed; sublime enigma;
angering bit of irresponsibility to the Martins of a fiercely
practical world. Bill was that rare kind of boy who could pull
away from the traces just when he seemed most thoroughly broken
to the harness.

It was ten o'clock before he got his pony out of the livery barn
and started for home. Even on the way, he refused to imagine what
would happen. He entered the house quietly, as though to tell his
father that it was his next move, and setting his bundle of books
on a chair, he glanced at his mother. She was at the stove, where
an armful of kindling had been set off to take the chill out of
the house. She looked at him mysteriously, as though he were a
ghost of some lost one who had strayed in from a graveyard, but