So when he proposed that we "hit the trail," I followed meekly in his wake.

He did not offer to take my suit-case, and I was about to remind him of the oversight when it occurred to me that possibly he was not a servant--he certainly didn't act like one.

I carried my own suitcase--which was, I have thought since, the only wise move I had made since I left home.
A strong but unsightly spring-wagon, with mud six inches deep on the wheels, seemed the goal, and we trailed out to it, picking up layers of soil as we went.

The ground did not _look_ muddy, but it was; I have since learned that that particular phase of nature's hypocrisy is called "doby." I don't admire it, myself.

I stopped by the wagon and scraped my shoes on the cleanest spoke I could find, and swore.