This time Paul broke the silence that followed.
“Like? Why like any other city. Lots of houses, lots of streets, lots of people, lots of noise. I’m a countryman myself, and don’t have much hankerin’ for the big towns. Though there’s my son now, my second boy, he can’t stand the farm. No, he has to be off to the city. I suppose that’s the way all you youngsters are feeling nowadays. What you’re after is always somewhere different from where the Lord put you. Opportunity—that’s what my boy’s forever chatterin’ about—you got to get where you have opportunities. I says to him, ‘Well, Tom, what is it ye’re after?’ ‘Independence, Dad,’ says he, ‘Like George Washington.’ ‘A good thing,’ says I. ‘And what do ye call independence?’ Well, sir, we argue away for hours, and for the life of me I can’t see that he ain’t just about the most _de_pendant feller I know. No sir, when ye live the sort of life I live ye get plenty time to think, and I tell ye when ye sift down to rock bottom just what ye _do_ want, and don’t dress it up in a lot of fine words, ye find that there’s precious little as really matters to ye, that ye can’t get without having to trot all over the country after it.”
Notwithstanding his companion’s challenging tone, and evident eagerness for further discussion, Paul made no reply to this speech.
They had now gained the top of a hill; and at last the comfortable lights of Frederickstown shone through the dusk.
“There ye are,” said the farmer pointing ahead with his whip, “and I’ve no doubt it’s a glad sight to ye, youngster. Have ye walked far?”
“No. There was a friend of my father’s travelling to this country also. I left him last night.”
Now the wagon was jolting over the cobblestones, jarring every bone in Paul’s weary body. And, he was so hungry! All at once he caught the odor of spices, of fresh ginger-bread—such a friendly smell, such a homey, domestic smell, that made you think of a warm hearth, and familiar faces—
Paul felt as if he were asleep. He climbed stiffly out of the cart, shook the friendly, horny paw that his erstwhile companion thrust out, and tried to mutter his thanks. The wagon rumbled away up the street—and here he was.
He stood in the shelter of the quaint wooden balcony which extended from the second story of the Lambert’s dwelling out over the pavement. In front of him the light shone cheerily through the bakeshop window. Somehow, he rather dreaded to go up and knock at the door. Suppose that after all it was the wrong place? Suppose that no one knew that he was coming? Or, suppose that they wouldn’t believe he was Paul Winkler?