Then, with a step to which vigor had
suddenly returned, he sought out Elnathan Owsley, aged twelve.
"Elnathan," he said, "I guess I am the oldest man in the poorhouse, but I
feel just about your age. Suppose you and I get out of here."
The boy smiled. He was very old for twelve, even as Christopher Lightenhome
was very young for sixty-eight.
"For a poorhouse this is a good place," continued Christopher, still with
that jubilant tone in his voice. "It is well conducted, just as the county
reports say. Still there are other places that suit me better. You come and
live with me, Elnathan. What do you say to it, boy?"
"Where are you going to live?" asked Elnathan, cautiously.
The old man regarded him approvingly. "You'll never be one to get out of
the frying-pan into the fire, will you?" he said. "But I know a room. I
have had my eye on it. It is big enough to have a bed, a table, a
cook-stove, and three chairs in it, and we could live there like lords.
Like lords, boy! Just think of it! I can get it for two dollars a month."
"With all these things in it?"
"No, with nothing in it.
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