And now, with this sweet prospect before us, it
came on steadily to rain. The men made camp in the slippery darkness, while
we sat in the wagon, warm and dry, and thanked our stars there were still a
few things left that men could do without our aid or competition. Presently
a lantern flashed out, and spots of light shifted over them as they
slaved--pounding tent-pegs, and scraping stones away from places where our
blankets were to be spread, hacking and hewing among the wet willows, and
grappling with stovepipes and tent-poles; and the harder they worked the
better their spirits seemed to be.
"I wish some of the people who used to know Cecil Harshaw in England could
see him now," said Kitty.
"What did he do in England?" I asked.
"He didn't hammer stovepipes and carry kitchen-boxes and cut fire-wood, you
know."
"Don't you like to see men use their muscle?" I asked her. "Very few of
them are reflective to any purpose at his age."
"Why, how old, or how young, do you take him to be?"
"I think you spoke of him as a boy, if I remember."
"If I called him a boy, it was out of charity for his behavior. He's within
six months of my own age.
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