--"_He_ was a Dartmouth man, too," said Fred
Johnson.
"He evidently knew what to do in the emergency of drowning," thought I.
I feel as if any one who hears of Fred's stories must think he was a
liar. But he really was not. Mr. Johnson was very strict with the boys
in some ways, though he was so good-natured, and Fred had been taught
to think a lie to get himself out of a scrape or anything of that sort
quite as wrong as we should have thought it. But he liked _telling_
things. I believe he made them up and amused himself with them in his
own head if he had no one to listen. He used to say, "Come and sit in
the kitchen garden this afternoon, and I'll _tell_ you." And whether
he meant me to think them true or not, I certainly did believe in his
stories.
One thing always struck me as very odd about Fred Johnson. He was very
fond of fruit, and when we sat on the wall and ate the white currants
with pounded sugar in a mug between us, I believe he always ate more
than I did, though he was "telling" all the time, and I had nothing to
do but to listen and eat.
He certainly talked very slowly, in a dreary, monotonous sort of
voice, which suited his dull, pasty face better than it suited the
subject of his exciting narratives.
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