I felt that I could not bear a longer separation.

Every letter from New Orleans--we got two or three a month--gave me a fit of homesickness; and when it was definitely settled that my father and mother were to remain in the South another twelvemonth, I resolved to go to them.
Since Binny Wallace's death, Pepper Whitcomb had been my fidus Achates; we occupied desks near each other at school, and were always together in play hours.

We rigged a twine telegraph from his garret window to the scuttle of the Nutter House, and sent messages to each other in a match-box.

We shared our pocket-money and our secrets--those amazing secrets which boys have.

We met in lonely places by stealth, and parted like conspirators; we couldn't buy a jackknife or build a kite without throwing an air of mystery and guilt over the transaction.
I naturally hastened to lay my New Orleans project before Pepper Whitcomb, having dragged him for that purpose to a secluded spot in the dark pine woods outside the town.