Samson’s words stung more deeply than he expected, though he had meant then to rankle, for to his mind nothing would have been more fairer or more acceptable than for his young leader to face the Royalist prisoner with nature’s weapons, and engage in a regular up and down fight, such as would, he felt sure, result in victory for their side.
They rode on in silence for some time before Samson hazarded another word.
“Beg pardon, sir,” he then said, humbly. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“No, no; I know that, Samson.”
“It was only because I thought that the men might think you afraid of Master Scarlett.”
Fred turned upon him angrily.
“I beg your pardon again, sir,” whispered Samson; “but it’s just as I say. I know you aren’t scared of him a bit, because I’ve knowed you ever since you was a little tot as I give pigabacks and rides a-top of the grass when I’d a barrow full. But the men don’t know you as I do, sir. Call a halt, sir, and fight him.”
“Samson, I am talking to you as my old friend now, not as your officer. It is impossible.”
“Not it, sir. The men would like it. So would you; and as for me—let me fight brother Nat same time, and I’ll give him such a beating as he won’t know whether it’s next We’n’sday or last We’n’sday, or the year before last.”
“I tell you, man, it’s impossible, so say no more.”