Don't tell your dad you've got it.
It's yourn." The boy made a gesture of rejection, and said: "I don't wish to take it, sir." "Now, that's good! Don't wish to take it! Why, what's your name?
You're a new sort o' boy." "My name is Harry Benedict." "Harry Benedict?
And what's your pa's name ?" "His name is Paul Benedict." "Where is he now ?" "He is in the poor-house." "And you, too ?" "Yes, sir," and the lad found expression for his distress in another flow of tears.
"Well, well, well, well! If that ain't the strangest thing I ever hearn on! Paul Benedict, of Sevenoaks, in Tom Buffum's Boardin'-house!" "Yes, sir, and he's very crazy, too." Jim Fenton set his rifle against a rock at the roadside, slowly lifted off his pack and placed it near the rifle, and then sat down on a stone and called the boy to him, folding him in his great warm arms to his warm breast.
"Harry, my boy," said Jim, "your pa and me was old friends.

We have hunted together, fished together, eat together, and slept together many's the day and night.

He was the best shot that ever come into the woods.

I've seed him hit a deer at fifty rod many's the time, and he used to bring up the nicest tackle for fishin', every bit of it made with his own hands.

He was the curisist creetur' I ever seed in my life, and the best; and I'd do more fur 'im nor fur any livin' live man.