My head sank to the table and my hands clasped my eyes to shut out the blackness.  But the blackness came again.

XVII

Tip Pulsifer leaned on my gate.  Crowning the post at his side was his travelling bandanna, into which he had securely clasped by one great knot all his portable possessions.  It was very early in the morning, in that half-dark and half-dawn time, when the muffled crowing begins to sound from the village barns and the dogs crawl forth from their barrels and survey the deserted street and yawn.  Tip was not usually abroad so early, but in his travelling bandanna and solemn face, as he leaned on his elbows and smoked and smoked, I saw his reason for getting out with the sun.  He was taking flight.  The annual Pulsifer tragedy had occurred; the head of the house had tied together his few goods, and, vowing never to trouble his wife again, had set his face toward the mountain.  But on my part I had every reason to believe that Tip would show surprise when I hobbled forth from the misty gloom.

[Illustration:  Tip Pulsifer leaned on my gate.]

Just a few minutes before I had awakened.  I had lifted my head from my desk, half-dazed, and gazed around the school-room.  I had rubbed my eyes to drive away the veils that hid my scholars from me.  I had pounded the floor with a crutch and cried:  “It’s books.”  The silence answered me.  I had not been napping in school, nor was I dreaming.  The long, miserable night flashed back to me, and I stamped into the misty morning.  Weary and dishevelled, I was crawling home, purposeless as ever, now vowing I would break with my brother, now quickening my steps that I might sooner wish him all the joy a brother should.  A few dogs greeted me and then Tip, calmly smoking as though it were my usual time to be about of a morning.

“You are going over the mountain, Tip?” said I.

“Yes,” he answered, throwing open the gate.  “This is the last Six Stars will see of me.  I’m done.  The missus was a-yammerin’ and a-yammerin’ all day yesterday.  If it wasn’t this, it was that she was yammerin’ about.  Says I, ‘I’m done.  I’m sorry,’ says I, ’but I’m done.’  At the first peek of day I starts over the mountain.  This is as fur as I’ve got.  You’ve kep’ me waitin’.”

“Me—­I’ve kept you waiting?” I cried.  “Do you think I’m going over the mountain, too?”

“No,” said Tip, with a grim chuckle.  “You ain’t married.  You’ve nothin’ to run from, ‘less you’ve been yammerin’ at yourself; then the mountain won’t do you no good.  I didn’t figure on your company, but Tim kep’ me.”

“Is Tim out at this hour?” I asked.

“At this hour?” Tip retorted.  “You’ll have to get up earlier to catch him.  He’s gone—­up and gone—­he is.”

I sat down very abruptly on the door-step.  “Tim gone?” I said.