The scattered lamps of Stump Creek flashed by. I was already four miles by road from home. We raced through the village of Pine Run—five miles. The next little town would be Sawmill—seven. Close to Sawmill the train slowed suddenly, air brakes hissing. I cracked my frozen limbs into action, found the ladder and jumped to the cinders before the train stopped. Men with lanterns hurried toward me. They seemed to be yelling my name. Railroad bulls, I said to myself. They’re gonna put me in jail. I stumbled across a ditch, climbed a fence and ran into the dark.

A long train ride but it was a longer walk home. Took me half the night. I followed the highway as far as Stump Creek, dodging into the bushes whenever I saw the lights of a car approaching. This side of the village I took the shortcut over the hill. The moon was low and the Big Dipper heeled over on its handle when I limped up Lightcap Hollow under the tunnel of trees. Two lamps glowed in the windows at our house. I was hoping to sneak in through the cellar door and crawl in bed before anyone knew I was home, but the hounds started yapping. When they recognized my scent it was too late.

Mother was glad to see me. She cried as she hugged me. Paw looked solemn. He must have caught hell from Mother and that meant I was in trouble with him. Will wasn’t around: in hiding, maybe, or maybe in bed. He would be looking for me too, come morning.

Paw led me out to the barn, where Mother wouldn’t hear, and gave me ten whops across the rear with his belt. Not too hard. It didn’t hurt much. I had a copy of the West Virginia Farmer folded inside my pants. The old man said he’d given Will twelve licks because Will was two years older and should’ve known better than to let me climb on that train.

Will got me on the way to school next morning, down by the macadam road where we waited for the bus. Little Paul watched and tried to pull Will off my back but that was a waste of time. When the bus finally came Will let me up. I picked the gravel out of my face, staunched my bleeding nose with my bandana and climbed aboard after Will and Paul. Duane Bishop, the driver, looked at my face but didn’t say a word. He knew better than to question Will.

But I didn’t care. I was a hero for nearly a week.

What’s more we got in the coal the next night, all of it, by team and wagon in the moonlight. Thirty bushels of good lump coal—about a ton and a half. Paw said. Enough to keep our house warm for the next four months, along with a few cords of oak and beech from the woodlot. The wood was free. Like the coal.