e _you_ to
march with. Can't keep step with anybody that ain't bright!"

"Nor I can't, either, Will Parlin; that's why I can't keep step with
you."

"Well, then, go along to the other side of the road--will you? I won't
have you here with your hippity-hop, hippity-hop."

"Go to the other side of the road your own self, and see how you like
it," retorted Fred. "I won't have _you_ here, with your tramp, tramp,
tramp."

Was ever anybody so provoking as Fred? Willy had an impulse to give him
a hard push; but before he could extend his arm to do it, he had
forgotten what they were quarrelling about. That strange sleepiness had
drowned every other feeling, and Fred's "tramp, tramp, tramp," spoken in
such drawling tones, had fairly caused his eyes to draw together.

"Guess I'll drop down here side of the road, and rest a minute," said
he.

"So'll I," said Fred, always ready for a halt if not for a march.

But it was a cold night. As soon as they had thrown themselves upon the
faded grass they began to feel the pinchings of the frost.

"None of your dozing yet a while," said Fred, who, though tired, was not
as sleepy as Willy. "We must push along till we get to a barn or
something."

Willy rose to his feet, promptly.

"Look up here and show us your eyes, Billy. I've just thought of
something. How do I know but you're sound asleep this minute? Generally
sleep with your eyes open--don't you--and walk round too, just the
same?"

Fred said this with a cruel laugh. He knew Willy was very sensitive on
the subject of sleep-walking, and he was quite willing to hurt his
feelings. Why shouldn't he be? Hadn't Willy hurt _his_ feelings by
making those cutting remarks in regard to music? As for the Golden Rule,
Master Fred was not the boy to trouble himself about that; not in the
least.

"I haven't walked in my sleep since I was a small boy," said Willy,
trying his best to force back the tears; "and I don't think it's fair
to plague me about it now."

"Well, then, you needn't plague me for not keeping step to your old
whistling. If you want to know what the reason is I can't keep step,
I'll tell you; it's because my feet are sore. They've been tender ever
since I blistered 'em last summer."

Willy was too polite this time, or perhaps too sleepy, to contradict.

It did seem as if the road to Harlow was the longest, and the hills the
steepest, ever known.

"Call it twelve miles--it's twenty!" said Fred, beginning to limp