The paved floor was cold to his bare feet, and, as he
tried to go to sleep, it kept getting colder and colder to his
back. Reaching out his hand, he fretfully rubbed the cracks
between stones. He scowled up at the ceiling of the porch.
He couldn't bear to look out through the door, for it framed the
vicar's house, with lamplight bodying forth latticed windows,
suggesting soft beds and laughter and comfortable books. All
the while his chilled back was aching in new places.
He sprang up, put on his shoes, and paced the churchyard. It
seemed a great waste of educational advantages not to study the
tower of this foreign church, but he thought much more about his
aching shoulder-blades.
Morton came from the porch stiff but grinning. "Didn't like it
much, eh, Bill? Afraid you wouldn't. Must say I didn't either,
though. Well, come on. Let's beat it around and see if we
can't find a better place."
In a vacant lot they discovered a pile of hay. Mr. Wrenn hardly
winced at the hearty slap Morton gave his back, and he
pronounced, "Some Waldorf-Astoria, that stack!" as they sneaked
into the lot.
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