The woodland-spiced air was like champagne to him; the road under foot so
elastic and springy that he felt like a thoroughbred before a race; he
wanted to lift his foot knee-high at every step, he had so much energy to
spare. In the midst of a speech of Lige's about the look of the wheat he
suddenly gave out a sigh so deep, so heartfelt, so vibrant, so profound,
that Willetts turned with astonishment; but when his eye reached his
companion's face, Harkless was smiling. The editor extended his hand.
"Shake hands, Lige," he cried.
The moon peeped over the shoulder of an eastern wood, and the young men
suddenly descried their long shadows stretching in front of them. Harkless
turned to look at the silhouetted town, the tree-tops and roofs and the
Methodist church spire, silvered at the edges.
"Do you see that town, Willetts?" he asked, laying his fingers on his
companion's sleeve. "That's the best town in the United States!"
"I always kind of thought you didn't much like it," said the other,
puzzled. "Seemed to me you always sort of wished you hadn't settled here."
A little further on they passed Mr. Fisbee. He was walking into the
village with his head thrown back, a strange thing for him. They gave him
a friendly greeting and passed on.
"Well, it beats me!" observed Lige, when the old man was out of hearing.
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