Mrs. Burns was determined to feed Harry into complete torpor. She put up enough food in a basket to last him to San Francisco at the shortest. Even when the boys had entered the buggy she ordered them to wait while she brought out some sweet melon pickles in a jar to add to the collection. "Well, now, good-by," said Harold, reaching down his hand to Mrs. Burns, who seized it in both hers. "You poor thing, don't let the Indians scalp ye." "No danger o' that," he called back. "Be good to yourself," shouted Burns, and the buggy rolled through the gate into the west as the red sun was setting and the prairie cocks were crowing. The boys talked their plans all over again while the strong young horse spattered through the mud. Slowly the night fell, and as they rode under the branches of the oaks, Jack took courage to say: "I wish Miss Yardwell had been here, Harry." "It's no use talking about her; she don't care two straws for me; if she had she would have written to me, at least." "Her mother may have been dying." "Even that needn't keep her from letting me know or sending some word. She didn't care for me--she was just trying to convert me." "She wasn't the kind of a girl who flirts. By jinks! You should see her look right through the boys that used to try to walk home with her after prayer meeting. They never tried it a second time. She's a wonder that way. One strange thing about her, she never acts like other girls. You know what I mean? She's different. She's going to be a singer, and travel around giving concerts--she told me so once." Harold was disposed to be fair. "I don't want anybody to feel sorry for me. I suppose she felt that way, and tried to help me." Here he paused and his voice changed. "But when I'm a cattle king out West and can buy her the best home in Des Moines--maybe she won't pity me so much. Anyhow, there's nothing left for me but to emigrate. There's no use stayin' around here. Out there is the place for me now." Jack put Harold down at the station and turned over to him all the money he had in the world. Harold took it, saying: "Now you'll get this back with interest, old man. I need it now, but I won't six months from now. I'm going to strike a job before long--don't you worry." Their good-by was awkward and constrained, and Harold felt the parting more keenly than he dared to show. Jack rode away crying--a brother could not have been more troubled. It seemed that the bitterness of death was in this good-by. CHAPTER VII ON THE WING When Harold arose the next morning his cheeks were still red with the touch of the wind and sun and he looked like a college student just entering upon a vacation. His grace and dignity of bearing set him apart from the rough workmen with whom he ate, and he did not exchange a single word with anyone but the landlord. As soon as breakfast was over he went out into the town.