CHAPTER II

RESCUING A LOST RACE

That same evening, as it chanced, one of the younger Wilsh boys came up to the house on an errand from a neighbor, and Hamilton, remembering that the messenger’s father had been a go-between in the feud story he had been hearing, noted the lad with interest.  Indeed, his appearance was striking enough in itself, with his drooping form, his extreme paleness, and his look of exhaustion.

“How far is it from the Burtons, Uncle Eli?” asked Hamilton.

“Eight miles,” was the reply.

Hamilton stared at the mountain boy.  Judging from his looks he was not strong enough to walk a hundred yards, yet he had just come eight miles, and evidently was intending to walk back home that evening.  Then Hamilton remembered that this lad was one of the “poor whites” of whom he had read so much, and he strolled toward the messenger who was sitting listlessly on one of the steps.

“Howdy!” said the newcomer in a tired voice.

Hamilton answered his greeting, and, after a few disjointed sentences, said: 

“You look tired.  It must be a long walk from the Burtons.”

“Jes’ tol’able,” the boy answered.  “I’m not so tired.  You f’m the city?” he queried a few minutes later, evidently noting the difference between Hamilton’s appearance and that of the boys in the neighborhood.

“Yes, New York,” answered Hamilton.

But the stranger did not show any further curiosity and Hamilton was puzzled to account for his general listlessness.  He thought perhaps it might be that the boy was unusually dull and so he asked: 

“Are you still going to school?”

A negative shake of the head was the only reply.

“Why not?  Isn’t there a school near where you live?”

“Close handy, ’bout five miles,” was the reply.

“Then why don’t you go there?” questioned Hamilton further.

“Teacheh’s gone.”

“Funny time for holidays,” the city boy remarked.

“Not gone fo’ holidays.”

“Oh, I see,” said Hamilton, “you mean he’s gone for good.  But aren’t you going to have another one?”

“Dunno if he’s gone for good,” the mountain boy answered.

Hamilton stared in bewilderment.

“Cunjer got him,” the other continued.

But this did not explain things any better.

“Cunjer?” repeated Hamilton.  “You mean magic?”

The mountain boy nodded.

“Yes, cunjer,” he affirmed.

“You’re fooling, aren’t you?” said Hamilton questioningly, “you can’t mean it.  I never heard of ‘cunjer’ as a real thing.  There’s lots about it in books, of course, but those are fairy tales and things of that sort.”

“An’ yo’ never saw a cunjer?”

“Of course not.”

“Reckon they don’ know as much in cities as they think they do,” the youngster retorted.