id the Colonel.

"Run and fetch some water, Davy," said Polly Ann, and straightway
launched forth into a vivid description of my exploits, as she mixed
the meal. Nay, she went so far as to tell how she came by me. The young
Colonel listened gravely, though with a gleam now and then in his blue
eyes. Leaning on his long rifle, he paid no manner of attention to
the angry voices near by,--which conduct to me was little short of the
marvellous.

"Now, Davy," said he, at length, "the rest of your history."

"There is little of it, sir," I answered. "I was born in the Yadkin
country, lived alone with my father, who was a Scotchman. He hated a man
named Cameron, took me to Charlestown, and left me with some kin of his
who had a place called Temple Bow, and went off to fight Cameron and the
Cherokees." There I gulped. "He was killed at Cherokee Ford, and--and I
ran away from Temple Bow, and found Polly Ann."

This time I caught something of surprise on the Colonel's face.

"By thunder, Davy," said he, "but you have a clean gift for brief
narrative. Where did you learn it?"

"My father was a gentleman once, and taught me to speak and read," I
answered, as I brought a flat piece of limestone for Polly Ann's baking.

"And what would you like best to be when you grow up, Davy?" he asked.

"Six feet," said I, so promptly that he laughed.

"Faith," said Polly Ann, looking at me comically, "he may be many
things, but I'll warrant he'll never be that."

I have often thought since that young Mr. Clark showed much of the
wisdom of the famous king of Israel on that day. Polly Ann cooked a
piece of a deer which one of the woodsmen had with him, and the quarrel
died of itself when we sat down to this and the johnny-cake. By noon we
had taken up the trace for Harrodstown, marching with scouts ahead and
behind. Mr. Clark walked mostly alone, seemingly wrapped in thought.
At times he had short talks with different men, oftenest--I noted with
pride--with Tom McChesney. And more than once when he halted he called
me to him, my answers to his questions seeming to amuse him. Indeed, I
became a kind of pet with the backwoodsmen, Cowan often flinging me to
his shoulder as he swung along. The pack was taken from the sorrel mare
and divided among the party, and Polly Ann made to ride that we might
move the faster.

It must have been the next afternoon, about four, that the rough
stockade of Harrodstown greeted our eyes as we stole cautious