The “Fathers” respond, and go on with the hunting-shirt men. But their pace is sedate; and this last results in an impoliteness which disturbs the excellent Papa Plauche to the core.
The hunting-shirt men are, for the major portion, riotous young blades from the backwoods. Moreover, they are used to this prowling warfare of the night. Is it wonder then that they advance more rapidly than does Papa Plauche with his “Fathers,” whose step is measured and dignified as becomes the heads of households?
Thus it befalls that, do their dignified best, Papa Plauche and his “Fathers” are left behind by the hunting-shirt men, who, deploying more and still more to the left, extend themselves in front of Papa Plauche. This does not suit the latter's hardy tastes, and he frets ferociously. He grows condemnatory, as the spitting rifle flashes show him that the vainglorious hunting-shirt men are between him and those English whom he hungers to destroy. Indeed, he fumes like tiger cheated of its prey.
“But we shall extricate ourselves, neighbor St. Geme!” cries Papa Plauche. “We shall yet extricate ourselves! Behold!”
The “Behold!” is the foreword of certain masterly maneuvers by Papa Plauche among the sugar stubble. The maneuvers free the farseeing Papa Plauche and his “Fathers” from those obstructive, unmannerly hunting-shirt men, who have cut off their advance even in its indomitable bud. The “Fathers” being better used to shop floors than plowed fields, however, make difficult work of it. At last courage has its reward, and the “Fathers” uncover their dauntless front.
“Oh, my brave St. Geme!” cries Papa Plauche, when his strategy has put the hunting-shirt men on his right, where they belong, “nothing can save the caitiff English now! Those ruffians in hunting tunics who protected them no longer impede our front. Forwards!”
The final word has hardly issued from between the clenched teeth of Papa Plauche when a rustling in the stubble apprises him of the foe.
“Fire, Fathers of Families, fire!” shouts Papa Plauche, and such is the fury which consumes him that the shout is no shout, but a screech.
It is enough! One by one each “Father” discharges his flintlock. The procession of reports is rather ragged, and now and again a considerable wait occurs between shots, like a great gap in a picket fence. Still, the last “Father” finally finds the trigger, and the command of Papa Plauche is obeyed.
The “Fathers” hurt no one by this savage volley, for their aim like their hearts is high. It is quite as well they do not. The stubble-disturbing force in front chances to be none other than that half company of regulars, to whose rear it seems the inadvertent Papa Plauche, in freeing them from the hunting-shirt men, has led his “Fathers.” The regulars are in a towering rage with Papa Plauche; but since no one has been injured, and Papa Plauche is profuse in his apologies, their anger presently subsides. The regulars again take up their bloody work upon the retreating English, while the discouraged Papa Plauche and the “Fathers,” full of confusion and chagrin at twice being balked, remain where they are.