Lincoln, Grant and
Edison and Shakespeare. When railroads were built in the pages of his
American History, it was Bill, himself, no less, who was the presiding
genius. His imagination constructed and levelled, and rebuilt and
remade.

One beautiful November afternoon, in his Junior year, at the sound of
the last bell, which usually found him cantering out of town, he went
instead to the school reading-room, and, sitting down calmly, opened his
book and slowly read. The clock ticked off the seconds he was stealing
from his father; counted the minutes that had never belonged to Bill
before, but which now tasted like old wine on the palate. He cuddled
down, lost to the world until five o'clock, when the building was
closed. He left it only to march down a few blocks to the town's meager
library, where another hour flew past. Gradually an empty feeling in his
middle region became increasingly insistent, and briefly exploring his
pockets, Bill decided upon a restaurant where he bought a stew and rolls
for fifteen cents. Never had a supper tasted so satisfying. After it,
he strolled around the town, feeling a pleasant warmth in his veins, a
springiness to his legs, a new song in his heart. It was so good to be
free to go where he pleased, to be his own master, if only for a stolen
hour, to keep out of sight of a cow or a plow. He wondered why he had
never done this before.

It was youth daring Fate, without show or bravado or fear; rolling the
honey under his tongue and drawing in its sweetness; youth, that lives
for the moment, that can be blind to the threatening future, that can
forget the mean past; youth slipping along with some chewing-gum between
his teeth and a warm sensation in his stew-crammed stomach, whistling,
dreaming, happy; youth, that can, without premeditation, remain away
from home and leave udders untapped and pigs unfed; sublime enigma;
angering bit of irresponsibility to the Martins of a fiercely practical
world. Bill was that rare kind of boy who could pull away from the
traces just when he seemed most thoroughly broken to the harness.

It was ten o'clock before he got his pony out of the livery barn and
started for home. Even on the way, he refused to imagine what would
happen. He entered the house quietly, as though to tell his father that
it was his next move, and setting his bundle of books on a chair, he
glanced at his mother. She was at the stove, where an armful of kindling
had been set off t