'"Feth, a' I'll do neether," I said, an' whipped up my horses.
'They went off, an' I seen no more o' them till this mornin', when they come again—an'—well, here I am.'
I had listened with a sort of greedy interest to every syllable. 'Were there many in your settlement who refused to take up arms?' I asked.
'Bout half o' us at first; but when they begun the burnin', the shearin' an' paintin' o' the cattle an' horses; the smashin' o' windows, an' the threatenin' with tar and feathers, of course a number got frightened, an' said they'd fight.
'Then in our settlement the way they used old man Williams scared a lot. These men who said they'd been sent by the Committee o' Safety, seized the old man one night, fastened all the doors an' closed the chimney-top, and then smoked the ol' fellow so badly that it isn't known yet whether he'll live or die. My own daughter was pelted with rotten eggs—and by men, mind you, by men.'
His voice rose here almost to a scream, and I saw that great anger burned in his face.
'That's what's been goin' on all over this whole country for the last three weeks; an' that's not hearsay; I've seen it. It's cruel, it's wicked, it's persecution, an' how can it be any less wrong because it's done by the "Sons o' Liberty," as they call themselves? Fine liberty that tears a man away from his wife an' children, an' farm, an' lands him in a place like this.'
There was a note of bitter scorn in the closing words.
'These cruelties will make friends for the King, won't they?' I said.
'They will,' he said with emphasis; 'they've done that already.'