Squatter Sovereignty.
“What do you want here?” demanded the man with the axe, as Don walked up the bank followed by his companions.
“I think that is a proper question for me to ask you,” replied Don, who did not at all like the surly tone in which he had been addressed. “This house belongs to my brother and myself, and we would thank you to vacate it without the loss of a moment.”
“Wal, I reckon we shall do as we please about that,” drawled one of the men who stood in the door.
“Well, I reckon you won’t. You’ll do as I please about it. I want possession here, and I want it now. I see you broke the lock in order to gain admittance, and you had no business to do that.”
“Do you live here?” asked the man with the axe.
“I’m going to live here.”
“Wal, thar’s two rooms in the shantee, an’ why can’t you-uns take one of ’em an’ let we-uns——”
“We don’t want company,” exclaimed Don, who was fairly staggered by the proposition. “We want you to clear out bag and baggage, and to be quick about it, too. My father is a magistrate, and this shooting-box is on his land.”
The word “magistrate” had a magical effect upon the members of the dirty group in the door-way. It put life into them, and at the same time set the women’s tongues in motion. They began packing up their scanty belongings, declaring, with much vociferation, that it was a sin and a shame that they should be turned out of such snug quarters just to accommodate the whims of a party of young aristocrats who wanted to come there and shoot a few ducks. Why couldn’t they go elsewhere for their ducks and leave honest people alone? That was always the way with rich folks. They didn’t care how others suffered so long as they had their own pleasure. But it was a great comfort to know that it wouldn’t always be so. There was a time coming, and it wasn’t so very far distant either, when rich folks would be required to give up some of their ill-gotten gains.