Copyright, 1911

By L. C. Page & Company

(INCORPORATED)

All rights reserved

Made in U. S. A.

New Edition, May, 1925

Electrotyped and Printed by
THE COLONIAL PRESS
C. H. Simonds & Co., Boston, U. S. A.

CONTENTS

ILLUSTRATIONS

Rodney, the Ranger

A sturdy boy in homespun, a lad of nearly fourteen years, whose eyes were clear and gray and whose face was resolute and honest, led his little sister by the hand, for she was small and the road was rough.

“We’ll rest, ’Omi, when we come to the big tree. Are you cold?” he asked, for there was the chill of March in the wind, though the sun lay very warm in the sheltered places.

“No. Who?” she asked, pointing a tiny hand at two riders turning the corner, a youth of about seventeen and a young girl. Their horses were spirited and the black groom following urged his horse.

The youth was not attractive, though his riding habit was the fashionable product of a London tailor in the style of 1772. His hair was dark, his eyes steely blue and set close to a long nose; his mouth was ill adapted to a pleasant smile.

The girl was attractive, a fact people were quick to recognize, and she was so accustomed to seeing them turn and look after her that she would have been piqued had they not done so. Her ways were wilful but there was a grace in them all. Mischief lurked in the dark blue eyes, which now lighted with genuine pleasure. She fluttered from her horse as a bird alights and threw her arms around the child, exclaiming, “And how is little Naomi?” Then, holding the child from her, she looked in her face and said, “You are a dear. Aren’t you proud of her, Rodney?”

“She’s just as good as she looks,” the boy replied, blushing with pleasure, and then glanced at the youth, who did not appear to notice him but slyly spurred his horse, so that the animal in swerving would have knocked Rodney into the ditch had the lad not been nimble.

“Nith; red,” said the child, clutching the girl’s scarlet cloak.

“Yes, and you like my poor, old red hat, too, don’t you? though Cousin Mogridge says it ill becomes me.”

“Eth, pretty too,” and the child pouted her lips for a kiss.

Not one, but several, were most graciously given her with the admonition: “Next time you be sure and remember me and my name. Say Lisbeth Danesford.”

“Have a care, ’Omi, for once Lisbeth knows that she’ll treat you as she does her other admirers.”

This remark was surprisingly impolite for Master Rodney Allison, but he was offended that Lisbeth had not introduced him to her London cousin, whom he was itching to thump. Moreover he had experienced Lisbeth’s fickleness.

She ignored him and said: “’Omi, where did you find such eyes? They are like stars with dew on them,” but suddenly she broke off and, with a bound, snatched from her cousin’s hand the whip with which he was about to lash Rodney.

The youth, evidently not liking the conversation, had again spurred his horse against young Allison, who without ceremony had seized the bit and set the animal on his haunches, nearly upsetting the rider.

Lisbeth had seen enough to know what had caused the trouble. “Boys are bullies,” she cried. “Here’s a test for your valour. Who’ll rescue my abused hat from the dragon?” saying which she sent it spinning over the fence.

Now the dragon was nothing less than a full grown and surly bull grazing in the pasture.

Rodney, enraged at Mogridge’s insolence and taunted by her words and the sight of the hat scaling like a low-flying swallow, yielded to the mad impulse to follow it. He would show the arrogant London youth what a Virginia boy dared do!

The bull had lifted his head in amazement, which gave place to rage at the red thing flashing before his sullen eyes. Snorting, he charged just as the lad snatched the hat from the ground and, turning, ran toward the fence.

It was a foolhardy deed, and the boy’s chance of escape seemed hopeless,––when the unexpected happened.

A little figure climbed the fence and with a shrill cry ran to meet him, waving her red cloak to distract the brute’s attention.

The boy started to run between the bull and the girl, but she shrieked, “I’m all right. Run for your life!”

Had not the beast hesitated, uncertain which of the two was his tormenter, this story would be brief indeed. Before Mogridge had dismounted the two had reached safety.

The girl, almost breathless, turned to Rodney, stamped her foot and between her gasps cried: “You––you––simpleton!”

Rodney Allison, being now in his right mind and a sensible lad, realized the merited rebuke, though scarcely from the girl who had dared him to make the venture.

“I fancy Squire Danesford will think you one too, Bess, when he hears of you facing charging bulls like a Spanish picador, all to save churlish fools from their folly,” said her cousin, sneeringly.

Again he laughed and with flaming face she cried, “Perhaps you had better tell him all while you’re about it; how you sat your horse like a pat of dough and watched me do it.”

It was Rodney’s turn to laugh, which he did most heartily, and Mogridge, his face redder than his fancy waistcoat, wheeled his horse and rode after the girl who was spurring ahead.

“I’d like to roll him in the mud and you’d like to have me do it, wouldn’t you, ’Omi?”

Naomi, trudging confidingly by his side, looked inquiringly out of her big eyes, stars with plenty of dew on them now, for during the excitement she had lifted up her voice in wailing and the tears had flowed freely.

Not until the riders drew rein at “The Hall” did Henry Mogridge overtake his cousin in the headlong race home. As it was, she dismounted before he could offer assistance and ran up the steps and across the white pillared veranda into the great wainscoted hall. An instant she paused, looking up at the portrait of a beautiful woman hanging there, and then went to her room.

The flickering light from the logs in the big fireplace relieved the shadows on the face in the frame, a face so like that of the girl’s as to leave no doubt whence she had inherited her charms.

The colour of hair and eyes, the poise of head, all were strikingly like, but in the girl’s face was a wilful recklessness, perhaps due to lack of a mother’s care, the mother she had never known, but more than probable an inheritance from her father, the reckless, hot-headed, sporting squire.

At table that evening the girl said little and made an excuse to leave before the last course.

Would her cousin tell her father? At the thought a look of defiance was in the girl’s face, a look not pleasant to see there.

As for the youth with the long nose and the narrow eyes, he had other plans for the present. Just now he was making himself as companionable as possible to his uncle, and it must be admitted he knew somewhat of the ways in which to do this. He told of the latest plays and scandals, to all of which the squire listened with occasional interruptions and allusions to what he knew of the London of the Fifties.

“Jupiter!” cried Mogridge, “but I’d think you’d find the Old Dominion mighty tame after the pleasures and associations you enjoyed in that good old town.”

“It’s all in adapting one’s self, my boy. I’m a bit old and Lisbeth is too young to show you what pleasures the Old Dominion really can afford. I’ll have to turn you over to the Reverend Pothero. He’s a rare blade and sure cure for ennui.”

“We hear tales of some of your Virginia parsons, and the joke of it is the stories, many of them at least, come from churchmen.”

“Oh, well, some things might be better, I suppose, but what can you expect when so few desire to take up the work in this country? To tell the truth, it sometimes was confoundly lonely at The Hall before Pothero came. But you haven’t told me anything of the government’s latest policy with respect to these colonies. Will Lord North’s hand be strong on the helm and what have we to fear from that arch demagogue, Pitt?”

“North’s hand will be as firm as the king’s and no firmer. Pitt will be dead when he has ceased to be a demagogue. The king speaks of him as ‘That Trumpet of Sedition,’” replied Mogridge with an air of sagacity.

“I fear you are right. His words have afforded the would-be traitors in this land their chief encouragement.”

“And from what I hear they seem to be having their way in Virginia.”

“Yes, there’s the very old Harry to pay here. Men whose position and interests lie in retaining the old order of things are catering to the rabble for a little temporary advantage. You see, the past few years, the Scotch-Irish immigrants have been pouring into the northwestern part of the colony. By nature and education they are hostile to rightful authority, are Dissenters and opposed to contributing in the way of taxes for the support of the established order.”

“Fools! to think they can scare England by refusing to buy goods of her just because she wishes them to pay a small tax. I’ve just heard that Colonel Washington met Richard and Francis Lee at the Raleigh Tavern in Williamsburg the other night after the governor, God bless him! had dissolved the Burgesses; that with Tom Jefferson and Patrick Henry they laid their plans for uniting with the rebels in the other colonies. I can’t understand of what such men as Washington are thinking. Treason, pur et simple, that’s what ’twill come to.”

“Henry is a wonderful orator, they say.”

“Words, words, and more words. Where he learns ’em all is a mystery, for he’d much rather talk than study. He’s infatuated young Jefferson, who’s yeoman on his father’s side, but who’s as smart as he is conceited. What do you suppose that young scamp is trying to accomplish? Nothing less than the ruin of the old families of this Dominion, sir. He would so change our laws that, instead of our estates descending to the eldest son and thus being kept up, they would be divided among the children, as is done in Massachusetts. And he would disestablish the church, he would, by gad, sir!”

The squire’s face, always florid from high living, was now so purple with passion that his wily nephew, fearing apoplexy, changed the subject.

“She’s but a girl, all I have. She’s like her dead mother and I––I can’t let her go.”

“But think what her mother would wish. Go over with her.”

“I can’t leave the estate. The slaves are only to be depended on when they have a capable overseer. Mine is not altogether trustworthy.”

“Excuse me but I don’t think it right for her to associate with servants and people like the Allisons. By the way, who are these Allisons? When riding this afternoon we met the boy and child, and Lisbeth made much of them. Surely they are not of our class.”

“Allison is a Scotchman. I happened to be at Norfolk when he landed from the old country. The captain told me the fellow had been brought on board unconscious and with a bad wound in his head. I liked the man’s face, and asked no questions. He never spoke of the matter. I paid the cost of his passage and let him work it out. He’s a good accountant.”

“An objectionable person, probably an escaped convict,” remarked Mogridge with the air of a judge.

“You can’t mean that you allow Lisbeth to go to such a school?”

“Well, you see,” replied the squire as if in excuse, “the school is a small one, confined to my neighbours’ children, otherwise I wouldn’t allow it.”

“So she associates with such boys as that Allison.”

“He’s a fine lad. His mother was a Tawbee, old Squire Tawbee’s daughter. She was a playmate of mine and lived at Greenwood till it had to be sold, after the squire’s death, to pay the debts.”

“But you don’t know about the father?”

“I said,” replied the squire, rather testily, “that he’s a decent man except for his revolutionary notions. He wants to say ‘amen’ every time Patrick Henry opens his mouth. That, I have no patience with. England has helped us fight our foes. This hullabaloo about no taxation without representation fills the ears of the ignorant. Why, fifty years ago the chronic growlers opposed the establishment of a postal service because the government, without consulting the colonies, charged postage on the letters.”

“It seems, however, that you are providing a living for a man who is a chronic growler and opposed to you.” There was the evident suggestion of a sneer in Mogridge’s voice.

“Well, I suppose I might look at it that way. I took him up when he hadn’t a friend.”

The squire frowned, but made no reply, and Henry Mogridge smiled unpleasantly, for he saw that his words were surely poisoning his uncle’s thoughts respecting the Allisons.

Mogridge’s sneers went to bed with the squire and arose with him in the morning. The thought that a man whom he had befriended was opposing him rankled deeply. And while in this irritable condition one of the first persons the squire met was David Allison, who had come early to work on the accounts.

“Good morning, Allison,” was the squire’s greeting, spoken gruffly.

“Good morning, Squire Danesford,” replied the Scotchman. “I thought I wad coom early an’ ha’ the work oot o’ the way.”

“So as to have time for carrying on your treasonable mischief, I suppose.”

“Excuse me, Squire, but I dinna think I understand.”

Allison looked at the squire in wonderment, which apparently served to further excite the squire’s rage, for he, without waiting for reply, exclaimed: “There soon will come a time when the traitors will have to eat their words. When she was ready, England put her powerful hand on the Indies, and they became hers. She reached out into Canada and, taking France by the coat collar, marched her out. When she feels like it, she’ll devote some spare half hour to knocking your heads together.”

The bent figure of the Scotchman straightened as he looked full in the face of his employer. “You misunderstand me, Squire; I only ask that England shall treat the colonists as she would treat Englishmen, for that is what we are. But for us she wad na’ found the task o’ running France out of Canada an easy one. I fought for England in that war as surely as I did for the colonies an’ I dinna intend to make talk that a self-respecting man should not.”

“That sounds well, but it means treason; and I for one will not harbour or support traitors,” was the angry response.

“And I,” replied Allison, with dignity, “will permit no man to control my thoughts or call me a traitor to the country for which I fought.”

How like a chill fog stealing in and shutting down, shrouding a place, is trouble in a household!

The squire was uneasy all the morning and then, calling for his horse, mounted him and rode away. Elizabeth eluded her cousin, who, left to amuse himself, heartily wished himself back in London.

At the home of the Allisons the trouble was of a very serious nature. David’s intention to keep from his wife and family what had occurred that morning, failed. Mrs. Allison knew that something serious had happened and, in her quiet way, finally learned what it was. Rodney, too, learned of it and that night went to his bed feeling that other boys fared better than he. There was his cousin, Dick Tawbee, with horses and dogs and servants to care for them, while he––well, there was no lad he knew who had so much of trouble.

The Vuysens with whom he lived, because after the death of his parents he could not find a better home, had been abusing him for running away in the morning, leaving his duties because he had wished to see a beaver colony at work. He had not intended to do anything wrong, but the temptation had been too great. That morning the world seemed overflowing with the alluring promises of spring, and the birds were singing in the forest. He thought of the beaver colony he had discovered the winter before when it was locked in ice. The ice would now be gone. Surely here was his opportunity.

He had approached very cautiously so as not to alarm the little animals, and finally found a place where he had a good view of them at work, cutting down trees with their chisel-shaped teeth and building dams with a skill which causes men to wonder.

Conrad was fond of the woods and animals, his only friends, for the Vuysens looked upon him as a sort of slave and treated him unkindly. It was rare pleasure for the lad to watch the beaver colony, and, now that he had been turned out of the cabin supperless, he sat down by the stump to think over his pleasure, rather than his trouble, and soon fell fast asleep. While Conrad slept, a small band of Indians was approaching along a spotted trail leading through the forest.

When awakened, Conrad thought he was dreaming; but, after rubbing his eyes and collecting his senses, he realized that the yelling and commotion were being caused by savages. His instinct prompted him to steal away, but, when he saw them leading the horse from the stable shed and one Indian cruelly beat it, he forgot himself and rushed to interfere. The horse was the best friend Conrad had known since his mother died.

A half drunken savage seized the boy by the hair, but others interfered, and so it happened that, instead of being killed on the spot, he found himself, together with the horse, a prisoner and hurried along the trail in the forest.

When Rodney came down to breakfast the next morning he was resolved to urge his father to make a pioneer home in the wonderful West he had heard so many tales about, out where there was plenty of big game and where there were broad acres to be had for the taking.

Not until he had nearly finished his breakfast did he screw up his courage to the point of carrying out his resolve. Then he said: “Father, I’ve heard you say there is land out on the Ohio River which you can have because of your service in the last war. Why don’t we settle on it? This place has nothing for us with the squire for an enemy, and not much at best.”

“Say, Sim, what’s the story you’s goin’ to tell, the one yer cousin told ye?”

“Yes, tell us about it, Sim.”

The pupils of the cabin school were having recess. A few weeks before David Allison had moved his family up to Charlottesville from the “tide-water country,” and had opened this school.

“Well, ye see––” began Sim.

“Yes, we see all right, but thar ain’t much fun lookin’ at you gittin’ ready to tell a story. You sure are slower’n our ol’ nigger, Absalom.”

“Give Sim a chance!”

Angus MacGregor spoke as one with authority and his stockily built body looked capable of enforcing the order. Sim proceeded.

“Oughter tarred an’ feathered the ol’ cuss,” said Angus.

“That’s jes’ what Bill thought, but they didn’t have no tar, let alone feathers. But Fin Anderson’s a curis feller, an’ Bill remembered that when he went out inter that country he toted along a feather bed; ’lowed he wanted somethin’ different to sleep on ter home than he had in ther woods. When Bill thought o’ that feather bed he jes’ sithed fer tar, when he’d make a turkey gobbler outer Bowlegs. Well, while they’s rummagin’ roun’ ther cabin they found some wild honey Fin had brought in, so they took that an’ daubed ther ol’ feller from head ter heel and then rolled him in the feathers.”

“Kinder rough on Fin’s feather bed.”

“Oh, he’d sure enough lay it to the Injun. After they got back home an’ told the story some o’ the fellers ’lowed as how they’d go over an’ give Bowlegs a lickin’ ter boot. Well, when they got in sight o’ the ol’ rascal, he was jes’ soberin’ up, sittin’ thar rubbin’ his eyes. ’Bout that time he seen ther feathers stickin’ out all over him an’ he let out a whoop an’ went tearin’ off through the brush, sheddin’ feathers at every jump like an ol’ settin’ hen scared off’n her nest.”

“They oughter licked the ol’ redskin; they’re all thieves,” said Angus with an important air.

“He stole the liquor but it looks like some one else stole the honey and feathers.”

All eyes turned toward the speaker who had joined the group unobserved. He was Rodney Allison.

The face of Angus turned red as a beet. Here was this upstart new boy with an air of questioning his authority. By means of Angus’ ability to give any boy in the neighbourhood a sound drubbing if necessary he had become the recognized leader. Evidently this new boy needed to be shown his proper place.

“Huh! Bill an’ his friends ain’t thieves, I can tell. An Injun is a born thief, so are most niggers, an’ I’ve been told that, when England used to send her thieves to Virginny, some of ’em turned schoolmasters after they landed.”

Sammy Dawson snickered and it was Rodney’s turn to get red in the face.

“I know one schoolmaster,” he said, “who is an honest man and always was, though thieving must be more fun than trying to teach some o’ the lunkheads who go to his school.”

Sammy didn’t snicker this time, but his eyes grew big and round.

In all the house of MacGregor probably there never had been a more surprised member than was Angus five minutes later, for David Allison had taught his son other things than were found in books; but he also had taught that this knowledge was not to be used except rarely, and when absolutely necessary. Rodney uneasily recalled this part of the instruction after the fight was over, and he had time to reflect on his part in bringing it on. Evidently he wasn’t doing anything to make the family popular with their new neighbours, whereas, if he’d kept his mouth shut instead of interrupting the conversation, all would have been well.

“Angus, let’s shake hands. I didn’t mean any offence and said more than I ought.”

Angus took the proffered hand rather reluctantly, and on his face was a look of suspicion, visible along with a black eye and a bleeding nose. Then he said: “You don’t come to school; got larnin’ enough, I reckon.”

“I have to work days, but study what I can nights,” was the reply.

“I saw ye workin’ with the nigger this mornin’. I ’lowed as how down in the tide-water country an’ in most other places folks as ’sociate with niggers ain’t much thought on. A slave has ter be kept in his place.”

“I reckon they’re niggers jes’ the same.”

“Yes, and I would trust ’em farther than I would most white folks.”

“I got no use fer mixin’ with niggers.”

“Look here, Angus, I thought you and I shook hands.”

“Well, I didn’t like ter refuse to meet ye half way,” replied the boy, sullenly, adding “My father says he allus ’spicions roosters as don’t crow.”

“What do you mean?”

“I ’low as how ’twould be like most fellers, as had licked another, to brag about it.”

So Angus suspected the proffered friendship! “Well, you see, when I came to think it over, I saw that I was partly to blame,” said Rodney. “I broke into the talk and invited trouble. I don’t like to hear any one blamed because their skins happen to be black or red, but it wasn’t exactly my business, as the talk wasn’t addressed to me.”

“I reckon you’re all right,” said Angus, holding out his hand, this time with a heartiness which was unmistakable. Then he said, “I’m glad you’ve come up inter this neck o’ woods, but I’m sorry ye bought that place o’ Denham, unless ye paid cash down an’ mighty little at that. The land’s worn out and the ol’ skin-flint has stuck two or three others in the same way. Had a mortgage on it, an’ then foreclosed.”