I coughed, to recall him from visions. He looked up at me, a little
shyly, debating--but why should it not be told?
"Uncle Maje--when I grow up, I'm going off to be a brakeman."
"I know it," I said quietly.
"Won't it be just fine!"
"It's the very finest life in all the world. I hoped for it myself once,
but I was disappointed."
He gave me a quick look of sympathy.
"Wouldn't they let you?"
"Well, they were afraid I'd be hurt--only I knew I wouldn't be--anything
to speak of--a couple of fingers, perhaps--"
"Off the left hand," he suggested understandingly.
"Of course,--off the left hand."
"That brakeman on No. 3 has got two off _his_ left hand," was the final
comment.
We retraced our steps; but there was yet another butterfly of my
namesake's. He led us to a by-path that followed the river bank up to
the bridge, running far ahead of us. When we reached him he was seated,
dumb with yearning, before a newly painted sign,
"GO TO BUDD'S FOR AN UP-TO-DATE 25 CT. DINNER."
He was obliged to limp that day, for his stone-bruise was coming on
finely; but he had gone half a mile out of his way to worship at this
wayside shrine. Again he was dreaming.
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