Mr. Whitman was about to reply, but his voice was drowned in a loud neigh that penetrated every cranny of the dwelling, and took precedence of all other sounds, and was instantly followed by a most vigorous response from the four horses in the barn, in which the tones of Dick were the most prominent.
“It’s Frank’s voice, Frank and James!” shouted Bertie, running to the door, followed more leisurely by all the rest.
Great was the joy and fervent the greetings, and not less warm the welcome bestowed upon old Frank, who, after a whole winter’s rest, had renewed his age.
“Take him to the stable, Bertie,” said his father, “or Dick will tear the stall down, he wants to see his mate.”
James was soon seated at the table, when Mr. Whitman said,—
“Do you like that part of the state better than this, James.”
“No, sir, it is too near the Indians.”
“But hasn’t General Wayne settled them?”
“Yes, sir, for a few years, perhaps; but there are a great many of them in the country beyond the Ohio, and they will always be ready to take up the hatchet, and certainly won’t lack provocation. Then there’s no market but by flat boats two thousand miles down the river to New Orleans, or by pack-horses and wagons over the mountains. If you raise crops you can’t sell ‘em; a good cow is worth but five dollars, a horse ten; wheat thirty cents a bushel and won’t bear transporting over the mountains,—nothing will but whiskey. Four bushels of grain is a load for a horse over the mountains, but he will carry twenty-four made into whiskey.”
“By-and-by it will be different.”