Sam smiled. “I could eat a hedgehog, quills and all,” he answered. “Sorry we haven’t hedgehog this morning,” laughed Mr. York. “I’m afraid it’s only the usual ham and eggs and trimmings. But I’ll see that you get enough of that.” An hour afterwards, attired in a dressing-gown of his host’s, Sam was lying at length in a long wicker chair, propped up with many red cushions, on the broad veranda. Although considerably lower than the neighbouring camp, “Greysides,” as Mr. York called his place, was still pretty well up in the world, and from the veranda one could look over rolling hills and see, on fair days, the distant blue of Lake Erie. The house was large, or seemed so to Sam, and was of field stone and grey weathered shingle, with numerous wide stone chimneys and many squatty gable-ends. The veranda that skirted three sides of the house was as wide as a room, and from it, between stone pillars, one saw on each side miles of rolling hills, wooded or meadowed. A path turned and twisted down a little slope from the broad steps to a break in the stone wall that lined the road. There there was a roughly-made trellis-arch of unbarked logs on which a rose vine was showing a few late blossoms. Behind the house the ground sloped upward again, and the trees, well thinned out in front, closed their ranks. Sam thought the place wonderful and perfect, inside and out, and all during that first forenoon was sorely tempted to pinch himself to make sure that he was really there. Presently Mr. York joined his guest, pulling a chair near to Sam’s and chatting as he opened his morning’s mail. Sam accepted a day-old newspaper and idly glanced over the first page of it, but somehow newspapers seemed of little interest up here away from the world, and he soon let it drop and returned to his contented and dreamy contemplation of the distant hills. After a while Mr. York tossed aside his letters and papers and leaned back in his chair. Then they talked. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that Sam talked, for Mr. York wanted to know many things and Sam was soon telling all about himself and about Amesville and the high school nine, with Mr. York only contributing an occasional encouraging word or a question. Normally Sam wasn’t very much of a talker, and he didn’t remember ever having said so much at once or told so many intimate facts about himself before. Afterwards he was surprised and a little embarrassed when he recalled his loquacity.