The bit of nonsense relieved them, but it was far from being nonsense to
Warner. His soul was alight. As he dived into the intricate problems
memories came with them. Lying there in the Southern thickets in the
close damp heat of summer he saw again his Vermont mountains with their
slopes deep in green and their crests covered with snow. The sharp air
of the northern winter blew down upon him, and he saw the clear waters of
the little rivers, cold as ice, foaming over the stones. That air was
sharp and vital, but, after a while, he came back to himself and closed
his book with a sigh.
"Pardon me for inattention, boys," he said, "but while I was enjoying
my algebra I was also thinking of old times back there in Vermont, when
nobody was shooting at anybody else."
Dick and Pennington walked solemnly back and sat down beside him again.
"Returned to his right mind. Quite sane now," said Pennington. "But
don't you think, Dick, we ought to take that exciting book away from him?
The mind of youth in its tender formative state can be inflamed easily by
light literature.
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