“Joke? Good Lord!” exclaimed Dan. “Do you think I was born with so short a memory, you scamp? Where are those nights on the way to Romney when you covered me with your overcoat to keep me from freezing in the snow? Where, for that matter, is that march in Maryland when Big Abel and you carried me three miles in your arms after I had dropped delirious by the roadside? If you thought I'd joke you about this, Pinetop, all I can say is that you've turned into a confounded fool.” Pinetop came back to the fire and seated himself upon the flour barrel in the corner. “'Twas this way, you see,” he said, breaking, for the first time, through his strong mountain reserve. “I al'ays thought I'd like to read a bit, 'specially on winter evenings at home, when the nights are long and you don't have to git up so powerful early in the mornings, but when I was leetle thar warn't nobody to teach me how to begin; maw she didn't know nothin' an' paw he was dead, though he never got beyond the first reader when he was 'live.” He looked up and Dan nodded gravely over his pipe. “Then when I got bigger I had to work mighty hard to keep things goin'--an' it seemed to me every time I took out that thar leetle book at night I got so dead sleepy I couldn't tell one letter from another; A looked jest like Z.” “I see,” said Dan quietly. “Well, there's time enough here anyhow. It will be a good way to pass the evenings.” He opened the primer and laid it on his knee, running his fingers carelessly through its dog-eared pages. “Do you know your letters?” he inquired in a professional tone. “Lordy, yes,” responded Pinetop. “I've got about as fur as this here place.” He crossed to where Dan sat and pointed with a long forefinger to the printed words, his mild blue eyes beaming with excitement. “I reckon I kin read that by myself,” he added with an embarrassed laugh. “T-h-e c-a-t c-a-u-g-h-t t-h-e r-a-t. Ain't that right?” “Perfectly. We'll pass on to the next.” And they did so, sitting on the halves of a divided flour barrel before the blazing chimney. From this time there were regular lessons in the little hut, Pinetop drawling over the soiled primer, or crouching, with his long legs twisted under him and his elbows awkwardly extended, while he filled a sheet of paper with sprawling letters. “I'll be able to write to the old woman soon,” he chuckled jubilantly, “an' she'll have to walk all the way down the mounting to git it read.” “You'll be a scholar yet if this keeps up,” replied Dan, slapping him upon the shoulder, as the mountaineer glanced up with a pleased and shining face. “Why, you mastered that first reader there in no time.” “A powerful heap of larnin' has to pass through yo' head to git a leetle to stick thar,” commented Pinetop, wrinkling his brows. “Air we goin' to have the big book agin to-night?”