“That’s right.  That’s all right,” agreed the boy.  “You’re a-goin’ somewheres, and I want to go with you.  You don’t know where you’re a-goin’, but you’re a-goin’.  You know all them outlandish countries like you’ve been a-tellin’ us about, and I don’t know anything, but I want to know, and I’m a-goin’ with you.  Leastways, I’m a-goin’, and I’m a-goin’ with you if you’ll let me.”

Keith’s reply was anything but reassuring.  He gave good reasons against Dave’s carrying out his plan; but his tone was kind, and the youngster took it for encouragement.

“I ain’t much account, I know,” he pleaded.  “I ain’t any account in the worl’,” he corrected himself, so that there could be no mistake about the matter.  “They say at home I used to be some account—­some little account—­before I took to books—­before I sorter took to books,” he corrected again shamefacedly; “but since then I ain’t been no manner of account.  But I think—­I kinder think—­I could be some account if I knowed a little and could go somewheres to be account.”

Keith was listening earnestly, and the boy went on: 

“When you told us that word about that man Hannibal tellin’ his soldiers how everything lay t’other side the mountains, I begin to see what you meant.  I thought before that I knowed a lot; then I found out how durned little I did know, and since then I have tried to learn, and I mean to learn; and that’s the reason I want to go with you.  You know and I don’t, and you’re the only one as ever made me want to know.”

Keith was conscious of a flush of warm blood about his heart.  It was the first-fruit of his work.

The boy broke in on his pleasant revery.

“You’ll let me go?” he asked.  “Cause I’m a-goin’ certain sure.  I ain’t a-goin’ to stay here in this country no longer.  See here.”  He pulled out an old bag and poked it into Keith’s hand.  “I’ve got sixteen dollars and twenty-three cents there.  I made it, and while the other boys were spendin’ theirn, I saved mine.  You can pour it out and count it.”

Keith said he would go and see his father about it the next day.

This did not appear to satisfy Dave.

“I’m a-goin’ whether he says so or not,” he burst forth.  “I want to see the worl’.  Don’t nobody keer nothin’ about me, an’ I want to git out.”

“Oh, yes!  Why, I care about you,” said Keith.

To his surprise, the boy began to whimper.

“Thankee.  I’m obliged to you.  I—­want to go away—­where Phrony ner nobody—­ner anybody won’t never see me no more—­any more.”

The truth dawned on Keith.  Little Dave, too, had his troubles, his sorrows, his unrequited affections.  Keith warmed to the boy.

“Phrony is a lot older than you,” he said consolingly.

“No, she ain’t; we are just of an age; and if she was I wouldn’t keer.  I’m goin’ away.”

Keith had to interpose his refusal to take him in such a case.  He said, however, that if he could obtain his father’s consent, as soon as he got settled he would send for him.  On the basis of this compromise the boy went home.