Jean would not answer, but there was no need for words; her eyes told the truth.
Just then the other man came up to her; he was one of Mr. Fletcher’s grooms.
“Aren’t you Mrs. Carruth’s little girl?” he asked.
But before Jean had time to answer Jabe Raulsbury came running along the road, one hand holding a handkerchief to his nose, the other waving wildly as he shouted:
“Just you wait ’till I lay my hands on you—you little wild cat!” He was too blinded by his rage to realize the situation into which he was hurrying.
Again Anthony Wayne’s spirit leaped into Jean’s eyes, as the dauntless little creature whirled about to meet the enemy descending upon her. With head erect, and nostrils quivering she stood as though rooted to the ground.
“Great guns! How’s that for a little thoroughbred?” murmured the groom, laughing softly.
Reaching out a protecting hand, Mr. Stuyvesant gently pushed the little girl toward the man who stood behind him, and taking her place let Jabe Raulsbury come head-on to his fate. Had the man been less enraged he would have taken in the situation at once, but his nose still pained severely from the well-aimed blow, and had also bled pretty freely, so it is not surprising that he lost his presence of mind.
“Go slow! Go slow! You are exactly the man I want to see,” said Mr. Stuyvesant, laying a detaining hand upon Jabe’s arm.
“Who ’n thunder air you?” demanded the half-blinded man.