Oak Forks had few attractions for him. Time had often dragged wearily with him. He had a literary taste, but could not get hold of books. Peter Brant had about a dozen volumes, none of which he had read himself, but Ernest had read them over and over again. None of the neighbors owned any books. Occasionally a newspaper found its way into the settlement, and this, when it came into Ernest's hands, was devoured², advertisements and all.

 

How, then, was his time passed? Partly in hunting, partly in fishing, for there was a small river two miles away; but one could not fish or hunt all the time. He had often felt a vague yearning³ to go to Chicago, or New York, or anywhere where there would be a broader field and large opportunities, and he had broached⁴ the subject to Peter.

 

"I can't afford to go, Ernest," the old man would reply. "I must live on the little I have, for I am too old to work."

 

"But I am young. I can work," the boy would answer.

 

"A boy like you couldn't earn much. Wait till I am dead and then you can go where you like."

 

This would always close the discussion, for Ernest did not like to consider such a contingency⁵. Peter represented his world, for he had no one to cling to except the man whom he supposed to be his uncle.

 

Now, however, the time had come when he could go forth⁶ and enter upon a career. Accordingly he declined Joe Marks' offer to take him into the store. He understood very well that it was only meant in kindness, and that he was not really needed.

 

"You don't need me, Joe," he said. "You are very kind, but there must be real work for me somewhere."

分享到：