142 THE MOUNTAINS 



grasped and perfectly expressed a boy's 

 elusive nature, and it is folly for me to 

 try. This much, though, I need to say: 

 although only about twelve years old, at 

 once I understood this farmer, at once I 

 pierced the clumsy disguise and discovered 

 the real Bayard. Yet more strange, per- 

 haps, he instantly seemed peculiarly to 

 care for me. And thus, there and then, 

 began a "swift conspiracy of friendship" 

 between a man and a boy. 



As an outcome of this friendship, the 

 "old Doolittle farm" became to me a kind 

 of home extraordinary. To this home, 

 at every twist and turn of things, I man- 

 aged to hasten, staying for days, or weeks, 

 or even months at a time. In the farm- 

 house, Mrs. Doolittle (who soon joined 

 our conspiracy) gave me, "for my very 

 own," a room and allowed me to carry 

 out all my whims in arrangement. As I 

 write, this room comes out clear-cut in 

 memory: the low angle-broken ceiling; 

 the cramped, rattling windows; the oak- 



