Just as I was going away one of the fellows said, “Here you go, kiddo,” and chucked a book up at me. “You take care of it; it was in his pocket,” he said. I guessed it was the book Westy had got out of the library and I was pretty glad because when you’re all alone and haven’t got any friends and everybody goes back on you, kind of, it’s dandy to read a book. Because, anyway, books never go back on you, that’s one sure thing. And they don’t take—anyway they’re good friends. When I looked at this one, I saw it was “Treasure Island” and I was glad ’cause I always liked that one. That fellow, Jim Hawkins, he was a fine fellow, anyway. Gee, I said to myself, I’d like to have him for a friend, that’s sure. Because a fellow in a book can be a friend to you just like a real one. Even better, sometimes. CHAPTER XXV THE SHORT CUT One thing, I hoped they’d all go home soon so I could sit down on a log and read some more in that book. Only lately I read it, but cracky, that doesn’t make any difference when it’s a good book, I thought I’d go back to the ditch pretty soon—as soon as El Sawyer came with the doctor. But, anyway, I wanted to be alone now. So I stuffed the book in my pocket and strolled over to where we had been cutting the saplings. Then I went over close and looked at the one Skinny had been chopping. I guess I didn’t know what I was doing and thinking about. Anyway, now that I looked at it, I was sorry I made fun of him and got mad at him. It wasn’t only because I knew he didn’t take the two dollars, but anyway, I felt sorry for him. I couldn’t see him anywhere around and he wasn’t in the ditch, I knew that. If he had been there then, you bet I’d have been all right with him. It made me feel bad when I looked at that sapling all hacked and standing up just as strong as ever. He must have chopped away on it for half an hour and about all the poor little kid did was to get the bark off. Right close by, I saw his belt-axe lying just where he left it. It had Skinny marked on it, and I guess he did it himself. It made me feel kind of sorry for him that he called himself Skinny. It _was_ his axe, anyway. And I felt like kicking myself. And I saw how he had been trying to be a scout just like the other fellows, poor little kid. It wasn’t any of my business where he got the money. It was _his_, anyway. Then I began kicking the chips around with my foot and saying, “Poor kid.” And I said I guessed he’d die before he could ever chop down a tree. Because, now since I had seen those red spots on his cheeks I knew how bad he was. I knew he didn’t have any strength at all, and all the time something he had said kept running in my mind. “_I like the one about honor._” “Poor little Skinny,” I said. I was feeling bad, anyway.