His horizon was wider than Tom Osby's.
"It's far, Tom," said he; "it's very far." "I everidge about twenty mile a day," said Tom, not wholly understanding.

"I can make it in less'n a week." "Tom," cried Dan Anderson, "don't!" But Tom Osby only trod half a pace closer, in that vague, never formulated, never admitted friendship of one man for another in a country which held real men.
"Do you know, Dan," said he, "if I could just onct in my life hear that there song right out--herself singin', words and all--fiddles, like enough; maybe a pianny, too--if I could just hear that! If I _could_ just hear--_that_!" "Tom!" They wandered on a way silently before the freighter spoke.

"There is some folks," said he, "that has to do things for keeps, for the rest of the folks that can't do things for keeps.

Some fellers has to just drive teams, or run a ore bucket, or play the cards, or something else common and useful--world's sort of fixed up that way, I reckon.

But folks that can do things for _keeps_--I reckon they're right proud, like." "Not if they really do the things that keep.