"Go to the other side of the road your own self, and see how you like it," retorted Fred. "I won't have _you_ here, with your tramp, tramp, tramp." Was ever anybody so provoking as Fred? Willy had an impulse to give him a hard push; but before he could extend his arm to do it, he had forgotten what they were quarrelling about. That strange sleepiness had drowned every other feeling, and Fred's "tramp, tramp, tramp," spoken in such drawling tones, had fairly caused his eyes to draw together. "Guess I'll drop down here side of the road, and rest a minute," said he. "So'll I," said Fred, always ready for a halt if not for a march. But it was a cold night. As soon as they had thrown themselves upon the faded grass they began to feel the pinchings of the frost. "None of your dozing yet a while," said Fred, who, though tired, was not as sleepy as Willy. "We must push along till we get to a barn or something." Willy rose to his feet, promptly. "Look up here and show us your eyes, Billy. I've just thought of something. How do I know but you're sound asleep this minute? Generally sleep with your eyes open--don't you--and walk round too, just the same?" Fred said this with a cruel laugh. He knew Willy was very sensitive on the subject of sleep-walking, and he was quite willing to hurt his feelings. Why shouldn't he be? Hadn't Willy hurt _his_ feelings by making those cutting remarks in regard to music? As for the Golden Rule, Master Fred was not the boy to trouble himself about that; not in the least. "I haven't walked in my sleep since I was a small boy," said Willy, trying his best to force back the tears; "and I don't think it's fair to plague me about it now." "Well, then, you needn't plague me for not keeping step to your old whistling. If you want to know what the reason is I can't keep step, I'll tell you; it's because my feet are sore. They've been tender ever since I blistered 'em last summer." Willy was too polite this time, or perhaps too sleepy, to contradict. It did seem as if the road to Harlow was the longest, and the hills the steepest, ever known. "Call it twelve miles--it's twenty!" said Fred, beginning to limp. "Would be twenty-five," said Willy, "if the hills were rolled out smooth." They trudged on as bravely as they could, but, in spite of the cold, had to stop now and then to rest, and by the time they had gone eight miles it seemed as if they could hold out no longer. "I shouldn't be tired if I were in your place," said Fred; "it's my feet, you know." "Here's a barn," exclaimed Willy, joyfully. "Hush!" whispered cautious Fred; "don't you see there's a house to it, and it wouldn't do to risk it? Folks would find us out, sure as guns." A little farther on there was a hayrack at the side of the road, filled with boards; and after a short consultation the boys decided to climb into it, and "camp down a few minutes."