"Up country--pack country. You know der Proad River--yes?" No, I did not. But a longing came upon me for the old backwoods life, with its freedom and self-reliance, and a hatred for this steaming country of heat and violent storms, and artificiality and pomp. And I had a desire, even at that age, to make my own way in the world. "What will you give me?" I asked. At that he put his finger to his nose. "Thruppence py the day." I shook my head. He looked at me queerly. "How old you pe,--twelve, yes?" Now I had no notion of telling him. So I said: "Is this the Charlestown road?" "Fourpence!" he cried, "dot is riches." "I will go for sixpence," I answered. "Mein Gott!" he cried, "sixpence. Dot is robbery." But seeing me obdurate, he added: "I vill give it, because ein poy I must have. Vat is your name,--Tavid? You are ein sharp poy, Tavid." And so I went with him. In writing a biography, the relative value of days and years should hold. There are days which count in space for years, and years for days. I spent the time on the whole happily with this Dutchman, whose name was Hans Koppel. He talked merrily save when he spoke of the war against England, and then contemptuously, for he was a bitter English partisan. And in contrast to this he would dwell for hours on a king he called Friedrich der Grosse, and a war he waged that was a war; and how this mighty king had fought a mighty queen at Rossbach and Leuthen in his own country,--battles that were battles. "And you were there, Hans?" I asked him once. "Ja," he said, "but I did not stay." "You ran away?" "Ja," Hans would answer, laughing, "run avay. I love peace, Tavid. Dot is vy I come here, and now," bitterly, "and now ve haf var again once." I would say nothing; but I must have looked my disapproval, for he went on to explain that in Saxe-Gotha, where he was born, men were made to fight whether they would or no; and they were stolen from their wives at night by soldiers of the great king, or lured away by fair promises.