“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 cautiously to the edge of the forest.  And the sight of no roofs and spires could have been more welcome than that of these logs and cabins, broiling in the midsummer sun.  At a little distance from the fort, a silent testimony of siege, the stumpy, cleared fields were overgrown with weeds, tall and rank, the corn choked.  Nearer the stockade, where the keepers of the fort might venture out at times, a more orderly growth met the eye.  It was young