For two weeks Flea and Flukey lived on the fat of the land. The country
afforded them haystacks, and the brooks, clear water. The children were
never happier than when Squeaky's nose was hidden in a tin can of
buttermilk, and the precious five dollars bought countless numbers of
currant buns, sugar cakes, and penny bones for Snatchet. Now Flukey
lifted his head proudly and walked with the air of a boy on the road to
fortune, and Flea kept at his side with the prince hugged close in her
arms. Through the long stretch of houseless roads Snatchet was allowed
to rove at will, and Flukey relieved his sister of her burden. By the
third day out toward the promised land the two little animals had become
firm friends, and the queer quartet walked on and on, as straight as the
crow flies, through the valleys and over the hills, wading the creeks
and ferrying the rivers, until they awoke one morning without money or
breakfast. The warm hay at night, much sunshine, and the absence of rain
had reduced the swollen joint in Flukey's knee to normal size; but that
day, as they trudged along, Flea noticed that he limped more than at any
time during their journey from Tompkins County. Even now, with hunger
staring wolf-eyed at them, there was no desire to return to Ithaca, no
thought of renewing their life in the squatter's settlement; for,
unknown to themselves, they were being swept on by a common destiny.
"Ye're gettin' lame again," said Flea after awhile, the mother-feeling
in her making her watch Flukey with concern. "Last night a-laying' in
the field didn't do ye any good. Let me lug Prince Squeaky."
Without remonstrance, the boy surrendered the wriggling burden, and they
started out once more.
"I wish we could find a nice, warm haystack," Flea commented; "it'd warm
up yer bones. Will we get to one, Fluke, after awhile?"
"Nope, 'cause we're comin' to a big city."
As he spoke, he motioned to where Tarrytown lay on the banks of the
Hudson River, several miles distant. Then they were silent a time; for
each young life was busy with the tragedy of living. Just what they
would do for a place to sleep Flea could not tell, since under the
compact made in the rock-cavern they would steal no more.
In the gathering twilight the two came upon the cemetery of Sleepy
Hollow, and here, tired, hungry, and despondent, they sat down to rest.
"It's gettin' night," said Flukey drearily. "I wonder where we'll
sleep?"
"Can't we squirm in this dead man's yard 'thout nobody seein' us?" asked
Flea, casting her eyes over the graves. "Ye can't walk no more tonight.
I ain't hungry, anyhow."
"Ye lie, Flea!" moaned Flukey. "Yer belly's as empty as Squeaky's or
Snatchet's. I've got to get ye somethin' to eat."
Nevertheless, without resistance, he allowed her to help him through the
large gate, and they struck off into the older part of the cemetery. All
through the night they lay dozing in the presence of the dead, Squeaky
tied by the leg to a tree, and Snatchet snuggled warmly between the two
children. The dawning of day brought Flukey new anguish; for both knees
were swollen, and he groaned as he turned over.