I didn’t intend to orate but as I sat facing Cunningham I felt as though I were facing the whole village. With his black clothes, his drooping shoulders, and his fifteen years of deliberation, he represented just the element I wanted to get at. But I didn’t rouse him very much. He murmured something about being surprised and I ran on still further. “Now,” I said, “what are we going to do about it? Most of the younger generation are moving away as fast as they are old enough. They are either going into the cities or out West. I don’t blame them for that. It’s encouraging to think they have life enough left in ’em to crawl out of this frog pond. Those who don’t emigrate are as old and feeble at seventeen as their grandfathers were at seventy. What are we going to do about it?” “Really, Mr. Carleton, I--I don’t know.” “Then let me give you my idea: let’s all emigrate.” He evidently thought I was crazy. “I mean it,” I said. “And I know what I’m talking about because I’ve already done it once. Let’s emigrate out of the past into the present. Let’s emigrate to new New England. Let’s start a pioneer movement and tackle these old acres as though they were virgin soil. Let’s join Dardoni and his fellows.” “You don’t mean literally, Mr. Carleton?” “Why not?” “Wouldn’t that be--to speak frankly--a little bit like going backwards?” “If you like,” I said. “But it wouldn’t hurt this town any to go back a hundred years or so. The curse comes in standing still.” “Well,” he said, preparing to leave, “your suggestion is interesting--very. I most certainly will think it over.” Remembering how long it took him to think over things before, that didn’t sound very encouraging. “All right,” I said, “and in the meanwhile I’m going to start something.” CHAPTER VI A GAME WORTH PLAYING