Instead of going on in his original direction, Philemon turned his horse and rode along with the squire, taking the rating in absolute silence.  Only when Mr. Meredith had expressed and re-expressed all that was in him to say did the young fellow give evidence that his dumbness proceeded from policy.

“Seems ter me, squire,” he finally suggested, “like you ’re layin’ up against me what don’t suit you ’bout dad.  I’ve done my bestest ter do what you and Miss Janice set store by, an’ it does seem ter me anythin’ but fairsome ter have a down on me, just because of dad.  ’T ain’t my fault I’ve got him for a father; I had n’t nothin’ ter do with it, an’ if you have any one ter pick a quarrel with, it must be with God Almighty, who fixed things as they is.  I’ve quit drillin’; I’ve spoke against the Congress; an’ there ain’t nothin’ else I would n’t do ter get Miss Janice.”

“Go to the devil, then,” advised the squire.  “No son of—­” There the squire paused momentarily, and after a brief silence ejaculated, “Eh!” After another short intermission he laughed aloud, as if pleased at something which had occurred to him.  “Why, Phil, my boy,” he cried, slapping his own thigh, “we’ll put a great game up on thy dad.  We’ll show him he’s not the only fox hereabout.”

“And what ’ere ‘s that?’

“What say ye to being my double in the poll, lad?”

“Run against father?” ejaculated Phil.

“Ay.  We’ll teach him to what trimming and time-serving come.  And be damned to him!”

“That ’ere ’s all very well for you,” responded Hennion, “but he hain’t got the whip hand of you like he has of me.  He would n’t stand my—­”

“He ’d have to,” gleefully interrupted the squire.  “Join hands with me, lad, and I’ll fix it so ye can snap your fingers at him.”

“But—­” began Phil.

“But,” broke in the squire.  “Nonsense!  No but, lad.  Butter—­ay, and cream it shall be.  Let him turn ye off.  There’s a home at Greenwood for ye, if he does—­and something better than that too.  Sixteen, ye dog!  Sweet sixteen, rosy sixteen, bashful sixteen, glowing sixteen, run-away-and-want-to-be-found sixteen!”

“She don’t seem ter want me ter find her,” sighed Phil.

“Fooh!” jeered the father.  “There’s only two kinds of maids, as ye’d know if ye’d been out in the world as I have —­those that want a husband and those that don’t.  But six months married, and ye can’t pick the one from t’ other, try your best.  There’s nothing brings a lass to the round-about so quick as having to do what she does n’t want.  They are born contrary and skittish, and they can’t help shying at fences and gates, but give ’em the spur and the whip, and over they go, as happy as a lark.  And I say so, Janice will marry ye, and mark my word, come a month she’ll be complaining that ye don’t fondle her enough.”

Mr. Meredith’s pictorial powers, far more than his philosophy, were too much for Philemon to resist.  He held out his hand, saying, “‘T is a bargain, squire, an’ I’ll set to on a canvass to-day.”