suit one are totally out of place and useless in another.  That was how General Braddock made so terrible and absolute a fiasco of his expedition; it was the custom of the British army to fight standing in line—­(and, in truth, many a notable victory had they won before, and many have they won since, in that formation)—­therefore fight thus in line they must, no matter what the nature of the country in which they fought.  Hence, in dense forest, surrounded by yelling savages, our men stood up to be shot by a foe whom they never saw till it was too late, and panic had set in amongst the few survivors.  Had our troops been taught to adapt themselves to circumstances and to fight as the colonists fought, as the French in Canada had learned to fight, as the Red Indians fought, taking every advantage of cover, Braddock need not thus unnecessarily have lost nearly seventy per cent, of his force.  In matters appertaining to war or to fighting, it was beneath the dignity, most unhappily it was beneath the dignity, of a British general to regard as of possible value the opinion of a mere colonial, no matter how experienced in Indian fighting the latter might be, or how great his knowledge of the country.  It was that, no doubt, which induced Braddock to disregard the opinion, and to pooh-pooh the knowledge of his then A.D.C.  George Washington.  Yet it was nothing but Washington’s knowledge that saved the van of Braddock’s defeated force.

In like manner, had this little exploring expedition been accompanied by colonists experienced in Indian ways, or had they chosen to make use of Indian scouts, disaster might have been averted.  As it was, almost on the threshold of their journey they were ambushed, and cut off by the Redskins.  Robson, Davers, and two of the men were speedily picked off by the concealed enemy, or were killed in the final rush of the painted, yelling savages.  The little force was scattered to the winds.  One or two, taking to the water, under cover of the darkness, and protected by that Providence which sometimes watches over helpless persons, eventually reached safety.  But young Kerr was not amongst these fortunate ones.  For him, experiences more trying were in store.  In the last melee he fell into the hands of a grim-looking, powerfully-built warrior, who bound him to a tree, and in that most unpleasant predicament the lad for a time remained, from moment to moment anticipating for himself the treatment he saw being dealt out on the bodies of his friends.  His youth saved him.  Too young to be considered by the Indians as fit to be a warrior, his scalp was not added to the other bloody trophies of victory; for him was reserved the fate of slavery, the disgrace (from an Indian point of view) of performing menial offices, of doing the work usually performed by squaws.  Kerr’s captor, a warrior named Peewash, of the tribe of the Chippeways, dragged his prisoner home to his wigwam.  There the boy was stripped naked, painted as Indians