There were all kinds of words,—short ones and long ones. Some were very long. This one—we-ell, maybe it wasn’t so long, for when you’re nine you don’t of course mind three-story words, and this one looked like a three-story one. But this one puzzled you the worst ever!  
Morry spelled it through again, searching for light. But it was a very dark word. Rec-om-pense,—if it meant anything money-y, then they’d made a mistake, for of course you don’t spell “pence” with an “s.”
 
The dictionary was across the room, and you had to stand up to look up things in it,—Morry wished it was not so far away and that you could do it sitting down. He sank back wearily on his cushions and wished other things, too: That Ellen would come in, but that wasn’t a very big wish, because Ellens aren’t any good at looking up words. That dictionaries grew on your side o’ the room,—that wish was a funny one! That Dadsy would come home—oh, oh, that Dadsy would come home!
 
With that wish, which was a very Big One indeed, came trooping back all Morry’s Troubles. They stood round his easy-chair and pressed up close against him. He hugged the most intimate ones to his little, thin breast.
 
It was getting twilight¹ in the great, beautiful room, and twilight was trouble-time. Morry had found that out long ago. It’s when it’s too dark to read and too light for Ellens to come and light the lamps that you say “Come in!” to your troubles. They’re always there waiting.
 
If Dadsy hadn’t gone away to do—that. If he’d just gone on reg’lar business, or on a hurry-trip across the ocean, or something like that. You could count the days and learn pieces to surprise him with when he got back, and keep saying, “Won’t it be splendid!” But this time—well, this time it scared you to have Dadsy come home. And if you learned a hundred pieces you knew you’d never say ’em to him—now. And you kept saying, “Won’t it be puffectly dreadful!”
 
“Won’t you have the lamps lit, Master Morris?” It was Ellen’s voice, but the Troubles were all talking at once, and much as ever he could hear it.
 
“I knew you weren’t asleep because your chair creaked, so I says, ‘I guess we’ll light up,’—it’s enough sight cheerier in the light”; and Ellen’s thuddy steps came through the gloom and frightened away the Troubles.
 
“Thank you,” Morry said, politely. It’s easy enough to remember to be polite when you have so much time. “Now I’d like Jolly,—you guess he’s got home now, don’t you?”
 
Ellen’s steps sounded a little thuddier as they tramped back down the hall. “It’s a good thing there’s going to be a Her here to send that common boy kiting!” she was thinking. Yet his patches were all Ellen—so far—had seen in Jolly to find fault with. Though, for that matter, in a house beautiful like this patches were, goodness knew, out of place enough!
 
“Hully Gee³, ain’t it nice an’ light in here!” presently exclaimed a boy’s voice from the doorway⁴.
 
“Oh, I’m so glad you’ve come, Jolly! Come right in and take a chair,—take two chairs!” laughed Morry, in his excess of welcome. It was always great when Jolly came! He and the Troubles were not acquainted; they were never in the room at the same time.
 
Morry’s admiration⁵ of this small bepatched, befreckled, besmiled being had begun with his legs, which was not strange, they were such puffectly straight, limber, splendid legs and could go—my! Legs like that were great!
 
But it was noticeable that the legs were in some curious manner telescoped up out of sight, once Jolly was seated. The phenomenon was of common occurrence,—they were always telescoped then. And nothing had ever been said between the two boys about legs. About arms, yes, and eyes, ears, noses,—never legs. If Morry understood the kind little device to save his feelings, an instinctive⁸ knowledge that any expression of gratitude⁹ would embarrass Jolly must have kept back his ready little thank you.
 
“Can you hunt up things?” demanded the small host with rather startling energy. He was commonly a quiet, self-contained host. “Because there’s a word—”
 
But Jolly had caught up his cap, untelescoped the kind little legs, and was already at the door. Nothing pleased him more than a commission from the Little White Feller in the soft chair there.
 
“I’ll go hunt,—where’d I be most likely to find him?”
 
The Little White Feller rarely laughed, but now—“You—you Jolly boy!” he choked, “you’ll find him under a hay-stack fast aslee— No, no!” suddenly grave and solicitous¹⁰ of the other’s feelings, “in the dictionary, I mean. Words, don’t you know?”
 
“Oh, get out!” grinned the Jolly boy, in glee at having made the Little White Feller laugh out like that, reg’lar-built. “Hand him over, then, but you’ll have to do the spellin’.”
 
“Rec-om-pense,—p-e-n-s-e,” Morry said, slowly, “I found it in a magazine,—there’s the greatest lot o’ words in magazines! Look up ‘rec,’ Jolly,—I mean, please.”
 
Dictionaries are terrible books. Jolly had never dreamed there were so many words in the world,—pages and pages and pages of ’em! The prospect¹¹ of ever finding one particular word was disheartening, but he plunged¹² in sturdily, determination written on every freckle⁷.
 
“Don’t begin at the first page!” cried Morry, hastily. “Begin at R,—it’s more than half-way through. R-e,—r-e-c,—that way.”
 
Jolly turned over endless pages, trailed laboriously¹³ his little, blunt finger up and down endless columns, wet his lips with the red tip of his tongue endless times,—wished ’twas over. He had meant to begin at the beginning and keep on till he got to a w-r-e-c-k,—at Number Seven they spelled it that way. Hadn’t he lost a mark for spelling it without a “w”? But of course if folks preferred the r kind—
 
“Hi!” the blunt finger leaped into space and waved triumphantly¹⁴. “R-e-c-k,—I got him!”
 
“Not ‘k,’—there isn’t any ‘k.’ Go backwards¹⁵ till you drop it, Jolly,—you dropped it?”
 
Dictionaries are terrible,—still, leaving a letter off o’ the end isn’t as bad as off o’ the front. Jolly retraced¹⁶ his steps patiently.
 
“I’ve dropped it,” he announced in time.
 
Morry was breathing hard, too. Looking up words with other people’s fore-fingers is pretty tough.
 
“Now, the second story,—‘rec’ is the first,” he explained. “You must find ‘rec-om’ now, you know.”
 
No, Jolly did not know, but he went back to the work undaunted. “We’ll tree him,” he said, cheerily, “but I think I could do it easier if I whistled”—
 
“Whistle,” Morry said.
 
With more directions, more hard breathing, more wetting of lips and tireless trailing of small, blunt finger, and then—eureka! there you were! But eureka was not what Jolly said.
 
“Bully for us!” he shouted. He felt thrilly with pride of conquest. “It’s easy enough finding things. What’s the matter with dictionaries!”
 
“Now read what it means, Jolly,—I mean, please. Don’t skip.”
 
“‘Rec-om-pense: An equi-va-lent received or re-turned for anything given, done, or suff-er-ed; comp-ens-a-tion.’”
 
“That all?—every speck¹⁷?”
 
“Well, here’s another one that says ‘To make a-mends,’ if you like that one any better. Sounds like praying.”
 
“Oh,” sighed Morry, “how I’d like to know what equi-valent means!” but he did not ask the other to look it up. He sank back on his pillows and reasoned things out for himself the best way he could. “To make amends” he felt sure meant to make up. To make up for something given or suffered,—perhaps that was what a Rec-om-pense was. For something given or suffered—like legs, maybe? Limp, no-good-legs that wouldn’t go? Could there be a Rec-om-pense for those? Could anything ever “make up”?
 
“Supposing you hadn’t any legs, Jolly,—that would go?” he said, aloud, with disquieting¹⁸ suddenness. Jolly started, but nodded comprehendingly. He had not had any legs for a good many minutes; the telescoping process is numbing¹⁹ in the extreme.
 
“Do you think anything could ever Rec-om-pense—make up, you know? Especially if you suffered? Please don’t speak up quick,—think, Jolly.”
 
“I’m a-thinkin’.” Not to have ’em that would go,—not go! Never to kite after Dennis O’Toole’s ice-wagon an’ hang on behind,—nor see who’d get to the corner first,—nor stand on your head an’ wave ’em—
 
“No, sirree!” ejaculated Jolly, with unction, “nothin’.”
 
“Would ever make up, you mean?” Morry sighed. He had known all the time, of course what the answer would be.
 
“Yep,—nothin’ could.”
 
“I thought so. That’s all,—I mean, thank you. Oh yes, there’s one other thing,—I’ve been saving it up. Did you ever hear of a—of a step-mother, Jolly? I just thought I’d ask.”
 
The result was surprising. The telescoped legs came to view jerkily, but with haste. Jolly stumbled to his feet.
 
“I better be a-goin’,” he muttered, thinking of empty chip-baskets, empty water-pails, undone²⁰ errands,—a switch on two nails behind the kitchen door.
 
“Oh, wait a minute,—did you ever hear of one, Jolly?”
 
“You bet,” gloomily, “I got one.”
 
“Oh!—oh, I didn’t know. Then,” rather timidly, “perhaps—I wish you’d tell me what they’re like.”
 
“Like nothin’! Nobody likes ’em,” came with more gloom yet from the boy with legs.
 
“Oh!” It was almost a cry from the boy without. This was terrible. This was a great deal terribler than he had expected.
 
“Would one be angry if—if your legs wouldn’t go? Would it make her very, do you think?”
 
Still thinking of empty things that ought to have been filled, Jolly nodded emphatically.
 
“Oh!” The terror grew.
 
“Then one—then she—wouldn’t be—be glad to see anybody, I suppose, whose legs had never been?—wouldn&rs............