Barr Robert
In the Midst of Alarms
CHAPTER XV
Before night three more telegraph boys found Yates, and three more telegrams in sections helped to carpet the floor of the forest. The usually high spirits of the newspaper man went down and down under the repeated visitations. At last he did not even swear, which, in the case of Yates, always indicated extreme depression. As night drew on he feebly remarked to the professor that he was more tired than he had ever been in going through an election campaign. He went to his tent bunk early, in a state of such utter dejection that Renmark felt sorry for him, and tried ineffectually to cheer him up.
“If they would all come together,” said Yates bitterly, “so that one comprehensive effort of malediction would include the lot and have it over, it wouldn’t be so bad; but this constant dribbling in of messengers would wear out the patience of a saint.”
As he sat in his shirt sleeves on the edge of his bunk Renmark said that things would look brighter in the morning—which was a safe remark to make, for the night was dark.
Yates sat silently, with his head in his hands, for some moments. At last he said slowly: “There is no one so obtuse as the thoroughly good man. It is not the messenger I am afraid of, after all. He is but the outward symptom of the inward trouble. What you are seeing is an example of the workings of conscience where you thought conscience was absent. The trouble with me is that I know the newspaper depends on me, and that it will be the first time I have failed. It is the newspaper man’s instinct to be in the center of the fray. He yearns to scoop the opposition press. I will get a night’s sleep if I can, and to-morrow, I know, I shall capitulate. I will hunt out General O’Neill, and interview him on the field of slaughter. I will telegraph pages. I will refurbish my military vocabulary, and speak of deploying and massing and throwing out advance guards, and that sort of thing. I will move detachments and advance brigades, and invent strategy. We will have desperate fighting in the columns of the Argus, whatever there is on the fields of Canada. But to a man who has seen real war this opéra-bouffe masquerade of fighting–I don’t want to say anything harsh, but to me it is offensive.”
He looked up with a wan smile at his partner, sitting on the bottom of an upturned pail, as he said this. Then he reached for his hip pocket and drew out a revolver, which he handed, butt-end forward, to the professor, who, not knowing his friend carried such an instrument, instinctively shrank from it.
“Here, Renny, take this weapon of devastation and soak it with the potatoes. If another messenger comes in on me to-night, I know I shall riddle him if I have this handy. My better judgment tells me he is innocent, and I don’t want to shed the only blood that will be spilled during this awful campaign.”
How long they had been asleep they did not know, as the ghost-stories have it, but both were suddenly awakened by a commotion outside. It was intensely dark inside the tent, but as the two sat up they noticed a faint moving blur of light, which made itself just visible through the canvas.
“It’s another of those fiendish messengers,” whispered Yates. “Gi’ me that revolver.”
“Hush!” said the other below his breath. “There’s about a dozen men out there, judging by the footfalls. I heard them coming.”
“Let’s fire into the tent and be done with it,” said a voice outside.
“No, no,” cried another; “no man shoot. It makes too much noise, and there must be others about. Have ye all got yer bayonets fixed?”
There was a murmur, apparently in the affirmative.
“Very well, then. Murphy and O’Rourick, come round to this side. You three stay where you are. Tim, you go to that end; and, Doolin, come with me.”
“The Fenian army, by all the gods!” whispered Yates, groping for his clothes. “Renny, give me that revolver, and I’ll show you more fun than a funeral.”
“No, no. They’re at least three to our one. We’re in a trap here, and helpless.”
“Oh, just let me jump out among ‘em and begin the fireworks. Those I didn’t shoot would die of fright. Imagine scouts scouring the woods with a lantern—with a lantern, Renny! Think of that! Oh, this is pie! Let me at ‘em.”
“Hush! Keep quiet! They’ll hear you.”
“Tim, bring the lantern round to this side.” The blur of light moved along the canvas. “There’s a man with his back against the wall of the tent. Just touch him up with your bayonet, Murphy, and let him know we’re here.”
“There may be twenty in the tent,” said Murphy cautiously.
“Do what I tell you,” answered the man in command.
Murphy progged his bayonet through the canvas, and sunk the deadly point of the instrument into the bag of potatoes.
“Faith, he sleeps sound,” said Murphy with a tremor of fear in his voice, as there was no demonstration on the part of the bag.
The voice of Yates rang out from the interior of the tent:
“What the old Harry do you fellows think you’re doing, anyhow? What’s the matter with you? What do you want?”
There was a moment’s silence, broken only by a nervous scuffling of feet and the clicking of gun-locks.
“How many are there of you in there?” said the stern voice of the chief.
“Two, if you want to know, both unarmed, and one ready to fight the lot of you if you are anxious for a scrimmage.”
“Come out one by one,” was the next command.
“We’ll come out one by one,” said Yates, emerging in his shirt sleeves, “but you can’t expect us to keep it up long, as there are only two of us.”
The professor next appeared, with his coat on. The situation certainly did not look inviting. The lantern on the ground threw up a pallid glow on the severe face of the commander, as the footlights might illuminate the figure of a brigand in a wood on the stage. The face of the officer showed that he was greatly impressed with the importance and danger of his position. Yates glanced about him with a smile, all his recent dejection gone now that he was in the midst of a row.
“Which is Murphy,” he said, “and which is Doolin? Hello, alderman!” he cried, as his eyes rested on one tall, strapping, red-haired man who held his bayonet ready to charge, with a fierce determination in his face that might have made an opponent quail. “When did you leave New York? and who’s running the city now that you’re gone?”
The men had evidently a sense of humor, in spite of their bloodthirsty business, for a smile flickered on their faces in the lantern light, and several bayonets were unconsciously lowered. But the hard face of the commander did not relax.
“You are doing yourself no good by your talk,” he said solemnly. “What you say will be used against you.”
“Yes, and what you do will be used against you; and don’t forget that fact. It’s you who are in danger—not I. You are, at this moment, making about the biggest ass of yourself there is in Canada.”
“Pinion these men!” cried the captain gruffly.
“Pinion nothing!” shouted Yates, shaking off the grasp of a man who had sprung to his side. But both Yates and Renmark were speedily overpowered; and then an unseen difficulty presented itself. Murphy pathetically remarked that they had no rope. The captain was a man of resource.
“Cut enough rope from the tent to tie them.”
“And when you’re at it, Murphy,” said Yates, “cut off enough more to hang yourself with. You’ll need it before long. And remember that any damage you do to that tent you’ll have to pay for. It’s hired.”
Yates gave them all the trouble he could while they tied his elbows and wrists together, offering sardonic suggestions and cursing their clumsiness. Renmark submitted quietly. When the operation was finished, the professor said with the calm confidence of one who has an empire behind him and knows it:
“I warn you, sir, that this outrage is committed on British soil; and that I, on whom it is committed, am a British subject.”
“Heavens and earth, Renmark, if you find it impossible to keep your mouth shut, do not use the word ‘subject’ but ‘citizen.’”
“I am satisfied with the word, and with the protection given to those who use it.”
“Look here, Renmark; you had better let me do the talking. You will only put your foot in it. I know the kind of men I have to deal with; you evidently don’t.”
In tying the professor they came upon the pistol in his coat pocket. Murphy held it up to the light.
“I thought you said you were unarmed?” remarked the captain severely, taking the revolver in his hand.
“I was unarmed. The revolver is mine, but the professor would not let me use it. If he had, all of you would be running for dear life through the woods.”
“You admit that you are a British subject?” said the captain to Renmark, ignoring Yates.
“He doesn’t admit it, he brags of it,” said the latter before Renmark could speak. “You can’t scare him; so quit this fooling, and let us know how long we are to stand here trussed up like this.”
“I propose, captain,” said the red-headed man, “that we shoot these men where they stand, and report to the general. They are spies. They are armed, and they denied it. It’s according to the rules of war, captain.”
“Rules of war? What do you know of the rules of war, you red-headed Senegambian? Rules of Hoyle! Your line is digging sewers, I imagine. Come, captain, undo these ropes, and make up your mind quickly. Trot us along to General O’Neill just as fast as you can. The sooner you get us there the more time you will have for being sorry over what you have done.”
The captain still hesitated, and looked from one to the other of his men, as if to make up his mind whether they would obey him if he went to extremities. Yates’ quick eye noted that the two prisoners had nothing to hope for, even from the men who smiled. The shooting of two unarmed and bound men seemed to them about the correct way of beginning a great struggle for freedom.
“Well,” said the captain at length, “we must do it in proper form, so I suppose we should have a court-martial. Are you agreed?”
They were unanimously agreed.
“Look here,” cried Yates, and there was a certain impressiveness in his voice in spite of his former levity; “this farce has gone just as far as it is going. Go inside the tent, there, and in my coat pocket you will find a telegram, the first of a dozen or two received by me within the last twenty-four hours. Then you will see whom you propose to shoot.”
The telegram was found, and the captain read it, while Tim held the lantern. He looked from under his knitted brows at the newspaper man.
“Then you are one of the Argus staff.”
“I am chief of the Argus staff. As you see, five of my men will be with General O’Neill to-morrow. The first question they will ask him will be: ‘Where is Yates?’ The next thing that will happen will be that you will be hanged for your stupidity, not by Canada nor by the State of New York, but by your general, who will curse your memory ever after. You are fooling not with a subject this time, but with a citizen; and your general is not such an idiot as to monkey with the United States Government; and, what is a blamed sight worse, with the great American press. Come, captain, we’ve had enough of this. Cut these cords just as quickly as you can, and take us to the general. We were going to see him in the morning, anyhow.”
“But this man says he is a Canadian.”
“That’s all right. My friend is me. If you touch him, you touch me. Now, hurry up, climb down from your perch. I shall have enough trouble now, getting the general to forgive all the blunders you have made to-night, without your adding insult to injury. Tell your men to untie us, and throw the ropes back into the tent. It will soon be daylight. Hustle, and let us be off.”
“Untie them,” said the captain, with a sigh.
Yates shook himself when his arms regained their freedom.
“Now, Tim,” he said, “run into that tent and bring out my coat. It’s chilly here.”
Tim did instantly as requested, and helped Yates on with the coat.
“Good boy!” said, Yates. “You’ve evidently been porter in a hotel.”
Tim grinned.
“I think,” said Yates meditatively, “that if I you look under the right-hand bunk, Tim, you will find a jug. It belongs to the professor, although he has hidden it under my bed to divert suspicion from himself. Just fish it out and bring it here. It is not as full as it was, but there’s enough to go round, if the professor does not take more than his share.”
The gallant troop smacked their lips in anticipation, and Renmark looked astonished to see the jar brought forth. “You first, professor,” said Yates; and Tim innocently offered him the vessel. The learned man shook his head. Yates laughed, and took it himself.
“Well, here’s to you, boys,” he said. “And may you all get back as safely to New York as I will.” The jar passed down along the line, until Tim finished its contents.
“Now, then, for the camp of the Fenian army,” cried Yates, taking Renmark’s arm; and they began their march through the woods. “Great Caesar! Stilly,” he continued to his friend, “this is rest and quiet with a vengeance, isn’t it?”
CHAPTER XVI
The Fenians, feeling that they had to put their best foot foremost in the presence of their prisoners, tried at first to maintain something like military order in marching through the woods. They soon found, however, that this was a difficult thing to do. Canadian forests are not as trimly kept as English parks. Tim walked on ahead with the lantern, but three times he tumbled over some obstruction, and disappeared suddenly from view, uttering maledictions. His final effort in this line was a triumph. He fell over the lantern and smashed it. When all attempts at reconstruction failed, the party tramped on in go-as-you-please fashion, and found they did better without the light than with it. In fact, although it was not yet four o’clock, daybreak was already filtering through the trees, and the woods were perceptibly lighter.
“We must be getting near the camp,” said the captain.
“Will I shout, sir?” asked Murphy.
“No, no; we can’t miss it. Keep on as you are doing.”
They were nearer the camp than they suspected. As they blundered on among the crackling underbrush and dry twigs the sharp report of a rifle echoed through the forest, and a bullet whistled above their heads.
“Fat the divil are you foiring at, Mike Lynch?” cried the alderman, who recognized the shooter, now rapidly falling back.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said the sentry, stopping in his flight. The captain strode angrily toward him.
“What do you mean by firing like that? Don’t you know enough to ask for the counter-sign before shooting?”
“Sure, I forgot about it, captain, entirely. But, then, ye see, I never can hit anything; so it’s little difference it makes.”
The shot had roused the camp, and there was now wild commotion, everybody thinking the Canadians were upon them.
A strange sight met the eye of Yates and Renmark. Both were astonished to see the number of men that O’Neill had under his command. They found a motley crowd. Some tattered United States uniforms were among them, but the greater number were dressed as ordinary individuals, although a few had trimmings of green braid on their clothes. Sleeping out for a couple of nights had given the gathering the unkempt appearance of a great company of tramps. The officers were indistinguishable from the men at first, but afterward Yates noticed that they, mostly in plain clothes and slouch hats, had sword belts buckled around them; and one or two had swords that had evidently seen service in the United States cavalry.
“It’s all right, boys,” cried the captain to the excited mob. “It was only that fool Lynch who fired at us. There’s nobody hurt. Where’s the general?”
“Here he comes,” said half a dozen voices at once, and the crowd made way for him.
General O’Neill was dressed in ordinary citizen’s costume, and did not wear even a sword belt. On his head of light hair was a black soft felt hat. His face was pale, and covered with freckles. He looked more like a clerk from a grocery store than the commander of an army. He was evidently somewhere between thirty-five and forty years of age.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said. “Why are you back? Any news?”
The captain saluted, military fashion, and replied:
“We took two prisoners, sir. They were encamped in a tent in the woods. One of them says he is an American citizen, and says he knows you, so I brought them in.”
“I wish you had brought in the tent, too,” said the general with a wan smile. “It would be an improvement on sleeping in the open air. Are these the prisoners? I don’t know either of them.”
“The captain makes a mistake in saying that I claimed a personal acquaintance with you, general. What I said was that you would recognize, somewhat quicker than he did, who I was, and the desirability of treating me with reasonable decency. Just show the general that telegram you took from my coat pocket, captain.”
The paper was produced, and O’Neill read it over once or twice.
“You are on the New York Argus, then?”
“Very much so, general.”
“I hope you have not been roughly used?”
“Oh, no; merely tied up in a hard knot, and threatened with shooting—that’s all.”
“Oh, I’m sorry to hear that. Still, you must make some allowance at a time like this. If you will come with me, I will write you a pass which will prevent any similar mistake happening in the future.” The general led the way to a smoldering camp fire, where, out of a valise, he took writing materials and, using the valise as a desk, began to write. After he had written “Headquarters of the Grand Army of the Irish Republic” he looked up, and asked Yates his Christian name. Being answered, he inquired the name of his friend.
“I want nothing from you,” interposed Renmark. “Don’t put my name on the paper.”
“Oh, that’s all right,” said Yates. “Never mind him, general. He’s a learned man who doesn’t know when to talk and when not to. As you march up to our tent, general, you will see an empty jug, which will explain everything. Renmark’s drunk, not to put too fine a point upon it; and he imagines himself a British subject.”
The Fenian general looked up at the professor.
“Are you a Canadian?” he asked.
“Certainly I am.”
“Well, in that case, if I let you leave camp, you must give me your word that, should you fall in with the enemy, you will give no information to them of our position, numbers, or of anything else you may have seen while with us.”
“I shall not give my word. On the contrary, if I should fall in with the Canadian troops, I will tell them where you are, that you are from eight hundred to one thousand strong, and the worst looking set of vagabonds I have ever seen out of jail.”
General O’Neill frowned, and looked from one to the other.
“Do you realize that you confess to being a spy, and that it becomes my duty to have you taken out and shot?”
“In real war, yes. But this is mere idiotic fooling. All of you that don’t escape will be either in jail or shot before twenty-four hours.”
“Well, by the gods, it won’t help you any. I’ll have you shot inside of ten minutes, instead of twenty-four hours.”
“Hold on, general, hold on!” cried Yates, as the angry man rose and confronted the two. “I admit that he richly deserves shooting, if you were the fool killer, which you are not. But it won’t do, I will be responsible for him. Just finish that pass for me, and I will take care of the professor. Shoot me if you like, but don’t touch him. He hasn’t any sense, as you can see; but I am not to blame for that, nor are you. If you take to shooting everybody who is an ass, general, you won’t have any ammunition left with which to conquer Canada.”
The general smiled in spite of himself, and resumed the writing of the pass. “There,” he said, handing the paper to Yates. “You see, we always like to oblige the press. I will risk your belligerent friend, and I hope you will exercise more control over him, if you meet the Canadians, than you were able to exert here. Don’t you think, on the whole, you had better stay with us? We are going to march in a couple of hours, when the men have had a little rest.” He added in a lower voice, so that the professor could not hear: “You didn’t see anything of the Canadians, I suppose?”
“Not a sign. No, I don’t think I’ll stay. There will be five of our fellows here some time to-day, I expect, and that will be more than enough. I’m really here on a vacation. Been ordered rest and quiet. I’m beginning to think I have made a mistake in location.”
Yates bade good-by to the commander, and walked with his friend out of the camp. They threaded their way among sleeping men and groups of stacked guns. On the top of one of the bayonets was hung a tall silk hat, which looked most incongruous in such a place.
“I think,” said Yates, “that we will make for the Ridge Road, which must lie somewhere in this direction. It will be easier walking than through the woods; and, besides, I want to stop at one of the farmhouses and get some breakfast. I’m as hungry as a bear after tramping so long.”
“Very well,” answered the professor shortly.
The two stumbled along until they reached the edge of the wood; then, crossing some open fields, they came presently upon the road, near the spot where the fist fight had taken place between Yates and Bartlett. The comrades, now with greater comfort, walked silently along the road toward the west, with the reddening east behind them. The whole scene was strangely quiet and peaceful, and the recollection of the weird camp they had left in the woods seemed merely a bad dream. The morning air was sweet, and the birds were beginning to sing. Yates had intended to give the professor a piece of his mind regarding the lack of tact and common sense displayed by Renmark in the camp, but, somehow, the scarcely awakened day did not lend itself to controversy, and the serene stillness soothed his spirit. He began to whistle softly that popular war song, “Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching,” and then broke in with the question:
“Say, Renny, did you notice that plug hat on the bayonet?”
“Yes,” answered the professor; “and I saw five others scattered around the camp.”
“Jingo! you were observant. I can imagine nothing quite so ridiculous as a man going to war in a tall silk hat.”
The professor made no reply, and Yates changed his whistling to “Rally round the flag.”
“I presume,” he said at length, “there is little use in attempting to improve the morning hour by trying to show you, Renmark, what a fool you made of yourself in the camp? Your natural diplomacy seemed to be slightly off the center.”
“I do not hold diplomatic relations with thieves and vagabonds.”
“They may be vagabonds; but so am I, for that matter. They may also be well-meaning, mistaken men; but I do not think they are thieves.”
“While you were talking with the so-called general, one party came in with several horses that had been stolen from the neighboring farmers, and another party started out to get some more.”
“Oh, that isn’t stealing, Renmark; that’s requisitioning. You mustn’t use such reckless language. I imagine the second party has been successful; for here are three of them all mounted.”
The three horsemen referred to stopped their steeds at the sight of the two men coming round the bend of the road, and awaited their approach. Like so many of the others, they wore no uniform, but two of them held revolvers in their hands ready for action. The one who had no visible revolver moved his horse up the middle of the road toward the pedestrians, the other two taking positions on each side of the wagon way.
“Who are you? Where do you come from, and where are you going?” cried the foremost horseman, as the two walkers came within talking distance.
“It’s all right, commodore,” said Yates jauntily, “and the top of the morning to you. We are hungry pedestrians. We have just come from the camp, and we are going to get something to eat.”
“I must have a more satisfactory answer than that.”
“Well, here you have it, then,” answered Yates, pulling out his folded pass, and handing it up to the horseman. The man read it carefully. “You find that all right, I expect?”
“Right enough to cause your immediate arrest.”
“But the general said we were not to be molested further. That is in his own handwriting.”
“I presume it is, and all the worse for you. His handwriting does not run quite as far as the queen’s writ in this country yet. I arrest you in the name of the queen. Cover these men with your revolvers, and shoot them down if they make any resistance.” So saying, the rider slipped from his horse, whipped out of his pocket a pair of handcuffs joined by a short, stout steel chain, and, leaving his horse standing, grasped Renmark’s wrist.
“I’m a Canadian,” said the professor, wrenching his wrist away. “You mustn’t put handcuffs on me.”
“You are in very bad company, then. I am a constable of this county; if you are what you say, you will not resist arrest.”
“I will go with you, but you mustn’t handcuff me.”
“Oh, mustn’t I?” And, with a quick movement indicative of long practice with resisting criminals, the constable deftly slipped on one of the clasps, which closed with a sharp click and stuck like a burr.
Renmark became deadly pale, and there was a dangerous glitter in his eyes. He drew back his clinched fist, in spite of the fact that the cocked revolver was edging closer and closer to him, and the constable held his struggling manacled hand with grim determination.
“Hold on!” cried Yates, preventing the professor from striking the representative of the law. “Don’t shoot,” he shouted to the man on horseback; “it is all a little mistake that will be quickly put right. You are three armed and mounted men, and we are only two, unarmed and on foot. There is no need of any revolver practice. Now, Renmark, you are more of a rebel at the present moment than O’Neill. He owes no allegiance, and you do. Have you no respect for the forms of law and order? You are an anarchist at heart, for all your professions. You would sing ‘God save the Queen!’ in the wrong place a while ago, so now be satisfied that you have got her, or, rather, that she has got you. Now, constable, do you want to hitch the other end of that arrangement on my wrist? or have you another pair for my own special use?
“I’ll take your wrist, if you please.”
“All right; here you are.” Yates drew back his coat sleeve, and presented his wrist. The dangling cuff was speedily clamped upon it. The constable mounted the patient horse that stood waiting for him, watching him all the while with intelligent eye. The two prisoners, handcuffed together, took the middle of the road, with a horseman on each side of them, the constable bringing up the rear; thus they marched on, the professor gloomy from the indignity put upon them, and the newspaper man as joyous as the now thoroughly awakened birds. The scouts concluded to go no farther toward the enemy, but to return to the Canadian forces with their prisoners. They marched down the road, all silent except Yates, who enlivened the morning air with the singing of “John Brown.”
“Keep quiet,” said the constable curtly.
“All right, I will. But look here; we shall pass shortly the house of a friend. We want to go and get something to eat.”
“You will get nothing to eat until I deliver you up to the officers of the volunteers.”
“And where, may I ask, are they?”
“You may ask, but I will not answer.”
“Now, Renmark,” said Yates to his companion, “the tough part of this episode is that we shall have to pass Bartlett’s house, and feast merely on the remembrance of the good things which Mrs. Bartlett is always glad to bestow on the wayfarer. I call that refined cruelty.”
As they neared the Bartlett homestead they caught sight of Miss Kitty on the veranda, shading her eyes from the rising sun, and gazing earnestly at the approaching squad. As soon as she recognized the group she disappeared, with a cry, into the house. Presently there came out Mrs. Bartlett, followed by her son, and more slowly by the old man himself.
They all came down to the gate and waited.
“Hello, Mrs. Bartlett!” cried Yates cheerily. “You see, the professor has got his desserts at last; and I, being in bad company, share his fate, like the good dog Tray.”
“What’s all this about?” cried Mrs. Bartlett.
The constable, who knew both the farmer and his wife, nodded familiarly to them. “They’re Fenian prisoners,” he said.
“Nonsense!” cried Mrs. Bartlett—the old man, as usual, keeping his mouth grimly shut when his wife was present to do the talking—“they’re not Fenians. They’ve been camping on our farm for a week or more.”
“That may be,” said the constable firmly, “but I have the best of evidence against them; and, if I’m not very much mistaken, they’ll hang for it.”
Miss Kitty, who had been partly visible through the door, gave a cry of anguish at this remark, and disappeared again.
“We have just escaped being hanged by the Fenians themselves, Mrs. Bartlett, and I hope the same fate awaits us at the hands of the Canadians.”
“What! hanging?”
“No, no; just escaping. Not that I object to being hanged,—I hope I am not so pernickety as all that,—but, Mrs. Bartlett, you will sympathize with me when I tell you that the torture I am suffering from at this moment is the remembrance of the good things to eat which I have had in your house. I am simply starved to death, Mrs. Bartlett, and this hard-hearted constable refuses to allow me to ask you for anything.”
Mrs. Bartlett came out through the gate to the road in a visible state of indignation.
“Stoliker,” she exclaimed, “I’m ashamed of you! You may hang a man if you like, but you have no right to starve him. Come straight in with me,” she said to the prisoners.
“Madam,” said Stoliker severely, “you must not interfere with the course of the law.”
“The course of stuff and nonsense!” cried the angry woman. “Do you think I am afraid of you, Sam Stoliker? Haven’t I chased you out of this very orchard when you were a boy trying to steal my apples? Yes, and boxed your ears, too, when I caught you, and then was fool enough to fill your pockets with the best apples on the place, after giving you what you deserved. Course of the law, indeed! I’ll box your ears now if you say anything more. Get down off your horse, and have something to eat yourself. I dare say you need it.”
