"Do they, Ike?" I said.

"I never knew a man who didn't," said Ike, making the cups dance on the

table by giving it a thump with his fist. "Why, Master Grant, I was

kicked about and hit when I was a boy more'n ever a boy was before, but

all that time seems bright and sunshiny to me."

"But do you think Shock's happy?" I said; "he's a boy, and has no one

to care about him."

"Happy! I should just think he is. All boys has troubles that they

feels bad at the time, but take 'em altogether they're as happy as can

be. Shock's happy enough his way or he wouldn't have been singing all

night atop of the load. There, you're a boy, and just you be thankful

that you are, my lad; being a boy's about as good a thing as there is."

We had nearly finished our breakfast when Ike turned on me sharply.

"Why, you don't look as if you was glad to be a boy," he said.

"I was thinking about what Mr Brownsmith will say when he knows I've

been in such trouble," I replied.

"Ah, he won't like it! But I suppose you ain't going to tell him?"

"Yes," I said, "I shall tell him."

Ike remained silent for a few minutes, and sat slowly filling his pipe.

At last, as we rose to go, after Ike had paid the waitress, he said to

me slowly: "Sometimes doing right ain't pleasant and doing wrong is. It's quite

right to go and tell Old Brownsmith and get blowed up, and it would be

quite wrong not to tell him, but much the nystest. Howsoever, you tell

him as soon as we get back. He can't kill yer for that, and I don't

s'pose he'll knock yer down with the kitchen poker and then kick you

out. You've got to risk it."

I did tell Old Brownsmith all my trouble when we reached home, and he

listened attentively and nodding his head sometimes. Then he said

softly, "Ah!" and that was all.

But I heard him scold Master Shock tremendously for going off from his

work without leave.

Shock had been looking on from a distance while I was telling Old

Brownsmith, and this put it into his head, I suppose, that I had been

speaking against him, for during the next month he turned his back

whenever he met me, and every now and then, if I looked up suddenly, it

was to see him shaking his fist at me, while his hair seemed to stand up

more fiercely than ever out of his crownless straw hat like young

rhubarb thrusting up the lid from the forcing-pot put on to draw the

stalks.




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