Once they passed a little brook singing in a mourn-fully sweet way
its eternal song over its pebbles. It called back to Howard the days
when he and Grant, his younger brother, had fished in this little
brook for trout, with trousers rolled above the knee and wrecks of
hats upon their heads.
"Any trout left?" he asked.
"Not many. Little fellers." Finding the silence broken, William
asked the first question since he met Howard. "Le's see: you're a
show feller now? B'long to a troupe?"
"Yes, yes; I'm an actor."
"Pay much?"
"Pretty well."
That seemed to end William's curiosity about the matter.
"Ah, there's our old house, ain't it?" Howard broke out, pointing to
one of the houses farther up the coulee. "It'll be a surprise to them,
won't it?"
"Yep; only they don't live there."
"What! They don't!"
"Who does?"
"Dutchman."
Howard was silent for some moments. "Who lives on the Dunlap
place?"
"'Nother Dutchman."
"Where's Grant living, anyhow?"
"Farther up the conlee."
"Well, then I'd better get out here, hadn't I?"
"Oh, I'll drive yeh up."
"No, I'd rather walk."
The sun had set, and the coulee was getting dusk when Howard got
out of McTurg's carriage and set off up the winding lane toward
his brother's house.
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