I had been with Tim. His letter from New York was in my hands, and over
and over I had read it, until I knew every twist in the writing. In the
reading I had been carried away from myself, and seemed to be beside him
in his battle in the world, laying about with him right lustily. Then by
force of habit I had looked up and had seen the shadow of the
juniper-tree. I was back in my prison. And it was books!
[Illustration: I was back in my prison.]
"Brace up there, Daniel Arker, and quit your blubbering!" I cried.
Daniel was a snuffler. Whenever I had a companion in the schoolhouse at
the noon recess, it was generally this lad, and when he was there he was
nursing a wound and snuffling. If there was any trouble to be got into,
if there was a flying ball to come in contact with, ice to break through
or a limb to snap, Daniel never failed to be on hand. Then he would
burst rudely into my solitude and while I sopped cold water over his
injured members, he would blubber. When I turned from him to my own
corner by the window, the blubber would die away into a snuffle, and
there he would sit, his head buried in his hands, snuffling and snuffling
until books.
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