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Mr. Sandage was resaying, "Well, so long, Abner, an' good luck to ye."

Abner tried to repeat the so longs and good lucks but his throat was aching so dismally as to stop all articulation whatsoever.

Mr. Sandage patted him on the back; they were now marching him out on the porch into the yellow light, down the steps toward the wagon. He stumbled a trifle on the top step, which caused the mules to start. Old Squire Meredith called, "Whoa there, Sam; whoa, Lige!"

Everything was blurred to Abner. He groped his way to a place on the wagon. The old Squire sucked his lips at the mules and Abner saw the blur of them lunge and felt himself jerked forward. The wind struck his face; the wagon set up its rattling, and the boy was off on the unsure adventure of manhood.

Abner eased himself over the bolster on to the backhounds where he could wipe his eyes with his shirt sleeve unobserved. Squire Meredith was too much engrossed in passing the slower-moving wagons and giving the road to automobiles to pay much attention to his guest for a while. The wagon rattled along merrily over stones and ruts, causing the world to dance before Abner's blurred eyes. Presently, when the traffic on the road was strung out and had eased somewhat the strain on the old man's attention, he began drawling, "Well—votin' about them school books—I reckon I done right, but I don't know as it makes much diff'runce one way or t'other, as they'll never be printed noway."

"Won't they?" asked Abner, under the erroneous impression that an old man wanted a young one to answer his monologue.

The Squire drove on silently and presently began on a new tack: "You know, in these murder trials, they could save a lot of time and expense by jest turnin' the man aloose an' lettin' him give the lawyers a mortgage on his farm—come to the same thing."

Abner did not follow this at all.