“Ye’re gettin’ lame again,” said Flea after awhile, the mother-feeling in her making her watch Flukey with concern.  “Last night a-laying’ in the field didn’t do ye any good.  Let me lug Prince Squeaky.”

Without remonstrance, the boy surrendered the wriggling burden, and they started out once more.

“I wish we could find a nice, warm haystack,” Flea commented; “it’d warm up yer bones.  Will we get to one, Fluke, after awhile?”

“Nope, ‘cause we’re comin’ to a big city.”

As he spoke, he motioned to where Tarrytown lay on the banks of the Hudson River, several miles distant.  Then they were silent a time; for each young life was busy with the tragedy of living.  Just what they would do for a place to sleep Flea could not tell, since under the compact made in the rock-cavern they would steal no more.

In the gathering twilight the two came upon the cemetery of Sleepy Hollow, and here, tired, hungry, and despondent, they sat down to rest.

“It’s gettin’ night,” said Flukey drearily.  “I wonder where we’ll sleep?”

“Can’t we squirm in this dead man’s yard ‘thout nobody seein’ us?” asked Flea, casting her eyes over the graves.  “Ye can’t walk no more tonight.  I ain’t hungry, anyhow.”

“Ye lie, Flea!” moaned Flukey.  “Yer belly’s as empty as Squeaky’s or Snatchet’s.  I’ve got to get ye somethin’ to eat.”

Nevertheless, without resistance, he allowed her to help him through the large gate, and they struck off into the older part of the cemetery.  All through the night they lay dozing in the presence of the dead, Squeaky tied by the leg to a tree, and Snatchet snuggled warmly between the two children.  The dawning of day brought Flukey new anguish; for both knees were swollen, and he groaned as he turned over.

Flea was up instantly.  “Be ye sick?”

“Only the twist in my legs.  I wish it wasn’t so cold.  If the sun would only get warm!”

“We’ll get to the good land today, Fluke,” soothed Flea, “and ye can eat all ye want, and sleep with a pile of covers on—­as big—­as big as that there vault yonder.”

“But we ain’t in the good land yet, Flea,” groaned Flukey, “and we’re all hungry.  I wish I could ’arn a nickel.  If ye didn’t love the pig so much, Flea, we could sell him.  He’s a growin’ thinner and thinner every minute, and Snatchet be that starvin’ he could eat another mut bigger’n himself.”

The girl made no answer to this, but tucked Squeaky’s pink nose under the blue-shirted arm and sat mute.

Flukey, encouraged, went on.  “Nobody’d buy Snatchet—­he’s only a poor, damn, shiverin’ cuss.”

“If we selled Prince Squeaky, some’un’d eat him,” mourned Flea.  “He ain’t goin’ to be e’t, I says!”

So forceful were her tones that Flukey offered no more suggestions; but stared miserably at the sun as it rose up from the east, dispersing the cold, gray morning fog.  Presently Flea stood up and said decisively: