“Hold on,” said Harrod, gruffly. “That younker said something about my not bein’ a gentleman. I ain’t goin’ to be talked to that way by none of George Clark’s whipper-snappers.”
In a moment the little officer had wheeled sharp round, and marched up to the huge borderer.
“Well, sir,” he said, defiantly, “I said you were no gentleman, to answer a civil question as you did. I repeat it. Now then, name your time and place, and I’ll fight you!”
For a moment the giant looked down at the slender form of this incarnation of pluck, pure and simple, as if he was puzzled. At last he burst into a roar of laughter, for he was a good-natured fellow after all, and said:
“I guess you’re right, arter all, little bantam. I durstn’t fight ye, that I know, for I couldn’t see to hit ye, ef ye stood edgewise. Let’s shake hands. I’m Bill Harrod of Harrodsburg, and by Gosh, I’m sorry I riled ye. Put it there.”
He held out a broad and horny palm, into which Frank insinuated his own diminutive hand, enduring a painful squeeze with great fortitude. Then all four, in perfect harmony, proceeded to the camp, where the senior captain, Joseph Bowman of Virginia, welcomed the little adjutant with great courtesy, and received the latter’s message.
“Colonel Clark’s compliments, gentlemen, and he has gone into camp on Corn Island. The river is fordable here, and he wishes you to bring over your companies and camp with him, when he will announce the object of the expedition, and call for volunteers.”
The news was spread from mouth to mouth with wonderful rapidity, the half-disciplined frontiersmen crowding round their commanders to hear the message, in a manner that would have caused a martinet to despair of their military character.
Nevertheless, Bowman issued the order, like an old officer.
“Git ready to move camp, boys; and look sharp.”