“There, darn ye!” cried the triumphant farmer; “that’s 1812 and Queenstown Heights for ye. How do you like ’em?”
Yates rose to his feet with some deliberation, and slowly took off his coat.
“Now, now, Yates,” said the professor soothingly, “let it go at this. You’re not hurt, are you?” he asked anxiously, as he noticed how white the young man was around the lips.
“Look here, Renmark; you’re a sensible man. There is a time to interfere and a time not to. This is the time not to. A certain international element seems to have crept into this dispute. Now, you stand aside, like a good fellow, for I don’t want to have to thrash both of you.”
The professor stood aside, for he realized that, when Yates called him by his last name, matters were serious.
“Now, old chucklehead, perhaps you would like to try that again.”
“I kin do it a dozen times, if ye aint satisfied. There aint no Yank ever raised on pumpkin pie that can stand ag’in that grapevine twist.”
“Try the grapevine once more.”
Bartlett proceeded more cautiously this time, for there was a look in the young man’s face he did not quite like. He took a catch-as-catch-can attitude, and moved stealthily in a semi-circle around Yates, who shifted his position constantly so as to keep facing his foe. At last Bartlett sprang forward, and the next instant found himself sitting on a piece of the rock of the country, with a thousand humming birds buzzing in his head, while stars and the landscape around joined in a dance together. The blow was sudden, well placed, and from the shoulder.
“That,” said Yates, standing over him, “is 1776—the Revolution—when, to use your own phrase, we met ye, fit ye, and licked ye. How do you like it? Now, if my advice is of any use to you, take a broader view of history than you have done. Don’t confine yourself too much to one period. Study up the War of the Revolution a bit.”
Bartlett made no reply. After sitting there for a while, until the surrounding landscape assumed its normal condition, he arose leisurely, without saying a word. He picked the reins from the backs of the horses and patted the nearest animal gently. Then he mounted to his place and drove off. The professor had taken his seat beside the driver, but Yates, putting on his coat and picking up his cane, strode along in front, switching off the heads of Canada thistles with his walking stick as he proceeded.
CHAPTER IV.
Bartlett was silent for a long time, but there was evidently something on his mind, for he communed with himself, his mutterings growing louder and louder, until they broke the stillness; then he struck the horses, pulled them in, and began his soliloquy over again. At last he said abruptly to the professor:
“What’s this Revolution he talked about?”
“It was the War of Independence, beginning in 1776.”
“Never heard of it. Did the Yanks fight us?”
“The colonies fought with England.”
“What colonies?”
“The country now called the United States.”
“They fit with England, eh? Which licked?”
“The colonies won their independence.”
“That means they licked us. I don’t believe a word of it. ‘Pears to me I’d ’a’ heard of it; fur I’ve lived in these parts a long time.”
“It was a little before your day.”
“So was 1812; but my father fit in it, an’ I never heard him tell of this Revolution. He’d ’a’ known, I sh’d think. There’s a nigger in the fence somewheres.”
“Well, England was rather busy at the time with the French.”
“Ah, that was it, was it? I’ll bet England never knew the Revolution was a-goin’ on till it was over. Old Napoleon couldn’t thrash ’em, and it don’t stand to reason that the Yanks could. I thought there was some skullduggery. Why, it took the Yanks four years to lick themselves. I got a book at home all about Napoleon. He was a tough cuss.”
The professor did not feel called upon to defend the character of Napoleon, and so silence once more descended upon them. Bartlett seemed a good deal disturbed by the news he had just heard of the Revolution, and he growled to himself, while the horses suffered more than usual from the whip and the hauling back that invariably followed the stroke. Yates was some distance ahead, and swinging along at a great rate, when the horses, apparently of their own accord, turned in at an open gateway and proceeded, in their usual leisurely fashion, toward a large barn, past a comfortable frame house with a wide veranda in front.
“This is my place,” said Bartlett shortly.
“I wish you had told me a few minutes ago,” replied the professor, springing off, “so that I might have called to my friend.”
“I’m not frettin’ about him,” said Bartlett, throwing the reins to a young man who came out of the house.
Renmark ran to the road and shouted loudly to the distant Yates. Yates apparently did not hear him, but something about the next house attracted the pedestrian’s attention, and after standing for a moment and gazing toward the west he looked around and saw the professor beckoning to him. When the two men met, Yates said:
“So we have arrived, have we? I say, Stilly, she lives in the next house. I saw the buggy in the yard.”
“She? Who?”
“Why, that good-looking girl we passed on the road. I’m going to buy our supplies at that house, Stilly, if you have no objections. By the way, how is my old friend 1812?”
“He doesn’t seem to harbor any harsh feelings. In fact, he was more troubled about the Revolution than about the blow you gave him.”
“News to him, eh? Well, I’m glad I knocked something into his head.”
“You certainly did it most unscientifically.”
“How do you mean—unscientifically?”
“In the delivery of the blow. I never saw a more awkwardly delivered undercut.”
Yates looked at his friend in astonishment. How should this calm, learned man know anything about undercuts or science in blows?
“Well, you must admit I got there just the same.”
“Yes, by brute force. A sledge hammer would have done as well. But you had such an opportunity to do it neatly and deftly, without any display of surplus energy, that I regretted to see such an opening thrown away.”
“Heavens and earth, Stilly, this is the professor in a new light! What do you teach in Toronto University, anyhow? The noble art of self-defense?”
“Not exactly; but if you intend to go through Canada in this belligerent manner, I think it would be worth your while to take a few hints from me.”
“With striking examples, I suppose. By Jove! I will, Stilly.”
As the two came to the house they found Bartlett sitting in a wooden rocking chair on the veranda, looking grimly down the road.
“What