He went almost hurriedly
to intercept the boy who came marching over the brow of the last low
hill.
Caleb Hunter, particularly in the last year or so, had seen many a
strange and brilliant costume pass along that wilderness highway, but
as he hung over the front gate he remembered that none of them had ever
before drawn him from his deep chair in the shadow. For him none of
them had ever approached in sensationalism the quite unbelievable garb
of the boy who came steadily on and on--who came steadily nearer and
nearer.
With a little closer view of him the watching man understood the reason
for the dense cloud of dust above the lone pedestrian. For when the
boy raised his feet with each stride, the man-sized, hob-nailed boots
which encased them failed to lift in turn. Indeed, the toes did clear
the ground, but the heels, slipping away from the lean ankles, dragged
in the follow-through. And the boy's other garments, save for his
flannel shirt and flapping felt hat, were of a size in keeping with the
boots.
His trousers had once been white cotton drill, but the whiteness had
long before given up the unequal struggle against grime and grease and
subsided to a less conspicuous, less perishable grey. They had been
cut off just below the knees and, unhemmed, hung flapping with every
step he took above a stretch of white-socked, spindly shanks.
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