“I’m afraid our troubles with the Spaniards are not over, George. These people are threatening again.”
“But that does not matter, does it, father?”
“I don’t know yet, my boy. There is a great deal of braggadocio and pride in your Spanish don, and they have plenty of enterprise and fight in them sometimes, as we know by what they have done.”
“But will they come and fight against us, father?” I said, eagerly.
“I don’t know that they will come and fight against us,” he replied, dryly.
I felt the blood come up into my temples, and I spoke quickly—
“I know I’m only a boy, father, and not big enough to fight for you, or by your side like a soldier, but I could load.”
He smiled and leaned toward me, and patted my shoulder.
“I beg your pardon, George,” he said, kindly. “I ought not to have spoken as I did. You are only a boy, and while you are a boy I pray heaven that you may enjoy a boy’s happy life, and that we may be free from all the troubles that are threatening. I am a soldier, and I have fought in the service of my country.”
“Yes,” I said, proudly, “I know. Morgan has often told me.”