“Never you mind!” “I'll tell dad ef you don't give me some.” “You jest dare to do it!” returned Mrs. Barton, in a menacing tone. “Your father ain't got nothin' to do with it. It's money for Sam's board.” “My name isn't Sam,” expostulated Herbert, who had a natural preference for his own appellation. “That's what I'm goin' to call you. You can call yourself George Washington, or General Jackson, ef you want to. Mebbe you're Christopher Columbus.” “My name is Herbert Reynolds,” said Herbert, annoyed. “That's what you call yourself to-day. There's no knowin' who you'll be to-morrow.” “Don't you believe me, Mrs. Barton?” asked Herbert, distressed. “No, I don't. The man who brung you--I dis-remember his name--” “Willis Ford.” “Well, Willis Ford, then! It seems you know his name. Well, he told me you was loony, and thought you was somebody else than your own self.” “He told you that I was crazy?” ejaculated Herbert. “Yes; and I have no doubt it's so.” “It's a wicked lie!” exclaimed Herbert, indignantly; “and I'd like to tell him so to his face.” “Well, you won't have a chance for some time. But I can't stand here talkin'. I must be goin' to the store. You two behave yourselves while I'm gone!” Herbert felt so dull and dispirited that he did not care to speak, but Abner's curiosity had been excited about New York, and he plied his young companion with questions, which Herbert answered wearily. Though he responded listlessly, and did not say any more than he felt obliged to, he excited Abner's interest. “I mean to go to New York some time,” he said. “Is it far?” “It's as much as a thousand miles. It may be more.” “Phew! That's a big distance. How did you come?” “We came in the cars.” “Did it cost much?” “I don't know. Mr. Ford paid for the tickets.” “Has he got plenty of money?” “I don't think he has. He used to be pa's clerk.” “I wish we had enough money. You and me would start some fine mornin', and mebbe your father would give me something to do when we got there.” For the first time Herbert began to feel an interest in the conversation. “Oh, I wish we could,” he said, fervently. “I know pa would give you a lot of money for bringing me back.” “Do you really think he would?” asked Abner, briskly. “I know he would. But your mother wouldn't let us go.” “She wouldn't know it,” said Abner, winking. “You wouldn't run away from home?” questioned Herbert. “Why wouldn't I? What's to keep me here? Marm's always scoldin', and dad gets drunk whenever he has any money to spend for drink. I reckon they wouldn't care much if I made myself scarce.” Herbert was not sure whether he ought not to feel shocked. He admitted to himself, however, that if he had a father and mother answering the description of Abner's, that he would not so much regret leaving them. At any rate, Abner's words awoke a hope of sometime getting away from the place he already hated, and returning to his city home, now more valued than ever.