Pete almost
regretted that their journey must come to an end. But he could not go
on meandering about the country without a home and without an object in
life: _that_ was pure loafing.
Pete might have excused himself on the ground that he needed just this
sort of thing after his serious operation; but he was honest with
himself, admitting that he felt fit to tackle almost any kind of hard
work, except perhaps writing letters--for he now thought well enough of
himself to believe that Doris Gray would answer his letter to her from
Sanborn. And of course he would answer her letter--and if he answered
that, she would naturally answer . . . Shucks! Why should she write
to him? All he had ever done for her was to make her a lot of bother
and hard work. And what good was his money to him? He couldn't just
walk into a store and buy an education and have it wrapped up in paper
and take it to her and say, "Here, Miss Gray. I got a education--the
best they had in the outfit. Now if you'll take it as a kind of
present--and me along with it . . ."
Pete was camping within fifty yards of the spot where old Pop Annersley
had tried to teach him to read and write--it seemed a long time ago,
and Annersley himself seemed more vague in Pete's memory, as he tried
to recall the kindly features and the slow, deliberate movements of the
old man.
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