The captain pulled off his hat complacently, in return to this salute, though he was obliged to smile at the array which met his eyes.  Every one of the Dutchmen had got his musket to an order, following a sort of fugleman of their own; while Mike had invented a “motion” that would have puzzled any one but himself to account for.  The butt of the piece was projected towards the captain, quite out of line, while the barrel rested on his own shoulder.  Still, as his arms were extended to the utmost, the county Leitrim-man fancied he was performing much better than common.  Jamie had correct notions of the perpendicular, from having used the plumb-bob so much, though even he made the trifling mistake of presenting arms with the lock outwards.  As for the Yankees, they were all tolerably exact, in everything but time, and the line; bringing their pieces down, one after another, much as they were in the practice of following their leaders, in matters of opinion.  The negroes defied description; nor was it surprising they failed, each of them thrusting his head forward to see how the “motions” looked, in a way that prevented any particular attention to his own part of the duty.  The serjeant had the good sense to see that his drill had not yet produced perfection, and he brought his men to a shoulder again, as soon as possible.  In this he succeeded perfectly, with the exception that just half of the arms were brought to the right, and the other half to the left shoulders.

“We shall do better, your honour, as we get a little more drill”—­said Joyce, with an apologetic salute—­“Corporal Strides has a tolerable idea of the manual, and he usually acts as our fugleman.  When he gets back, we shall improve.”

“When he gets back, serjeant—­can you, or any other man, tell when that will be?”

“Yes, yer honour,” sputtered Mike, with the eagerness of a boy.  “I’se the man to tell yees that same.”

“You?—­What can you know, that is not known to all of us, my good Michael?”

“I knows what I sees; and if yon isn’t Misther Strhides, then I am not acquainted with his sthraddle.”

Sure enough, Joel appeared at the gate, as Mike concluded his assertions.  How he got there, no one knew; for a good look-out had been kept in the direction of the mill; and, yet here was the overseer applying for admission, as if he had fallen from the clouds!  Of course, the application was not denied, though made in a manner so unexpected, and Joel stood in front of his old comrades at the hoe and plough, if not in arms, in less than a minute.  His return was proclaimed through the house in an incredibly short space of time, by the aid of the children, and all the females came pouring out from the court to learn the tidings, led by Mrs. Strides and her young brood.

“Have you anything to communicate to me in private, Strides?” the captain demanded, maintaining an appearance of sang froid that he was far from feeling—­“or, can your report be made here, before the whole settlement?”