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To his mother and sister Billy seemed changed. He stuck closer to his books. His teacher told them the boy stood at the head of his class. “Jimmy Dorr may be a rival if he feels like work, which isn’t probable. Jean’s accident last year put her behind, otherwise the boys would have to work much harder if either excelled her.” Yet even these welcome words did not account for some things the mother quietly observed; Billy’s growing promptness, better attention, and memory for matters outside of play. He was more silent, too; and there was less hammering and whistling in the shop. She was happy and the time passed unnoticed till she had finished, and put the food back in the pail, when a queer, dizzy feeling came upon her and she sank down on one of the rugs. Billy ducked his head into the cooling water, filled his mouth, and ran on. He could hear the painful breathing of the prisoners bearing the chest. It looked heavy, and he knew it was hard to carry, walking single file down the steep trail. How awfully they must feel, Billy thought. It was like the children in the fiery furnace. Did the men see that this was a tragic beginning of the just penalty for their sins? Cheats! Robbers! No, not robbers, boldly[221] risking life for booty, but cunning thieves, stealing from their fellow men, from widows, orphans, perhaps from his own mother; she had taken a counterfeit piece only a little while before..

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He laughed coarsely. “George Smith’s kid, all right. You’ve got the same high way with you.” “By heck!” he thundered. “O, Mar, won’t the heathens’ faces shine, too!” exclaimed Betty, joyously, as the coins slipped into her box with an opulent clatter. “I want Howard Eliot,” she cried, “he can sing so lovely, an’ I want Miss Gordon, she’s so comfortin’.”.