The woman merely nodded to Tom, and after wiping off a chair with her apron, requested him to “set down.”
“Now, then,” exclaimed the farmer, as the boys crowded up around Tom, and stared at him as if they meant to look him out of countenance; “here’s my youngsters—seven on ’em; aint they a fine-lookin’ lot of fellers? This one,” he continued, pointing to the oldest of the group, a tall, gaunt, stupid-looking boy, “he’s Roger Williams—Roger Williams Hayes; you’ve heered of him, hain’t you? Shake hands with him, Tommy, and be friends.”
Tom arose to his feet and extended his hand, which was accepted by Roger Williams, whose thoughts seemed to be entirely occupied with Tom’s clothes. After looking at his coat for a moment, he examined it with his fingers, and asked, in a slow, drawling voice:
“What’s sich a coat as that ar’ wuth, Tommy?”
“Roger Williams!” shouted the mother; “where’s your manners? Set down to onct.”
The boy evidently feared to disobey, for he retreated to a chair in the corner, where he sat, lost in admiration of Tom’s jacket and well-blacked boots.
“You’ve heard of Roger Williams, haint you?” continued the farmer; “of course you have. I must get you to tell my boys all about him some time, ’cause you can do it better’n I can. When I was a youngster I heered that he was a good man, an’ that he was kicked out of the country ’cause he didn’t like the Britishers. I don’t like ’em nuther, an’ that’s why I call my boy Roger Williams. This one,” he added, pointing to another of the group, “he’s George Washington Hayes. Of course, you know all ’bout the gen’ral he’s named after. If he only lives to be as great a man as he was, I shall be satisfied. This one is John Warren, named after the gen’ral that was killed at the battle of Bunker Hill. My grandfather was in that fight, an’ helped whip the Britishers; that’s why I call him John Warren. This boy is Franklin Pierce, a good chap to work, and the best l’arnt in the whole family.”
Franklin Pierce was about Tom’s age, barefooted and dirty like his brothers; and, as his father pulled him in front of the village boy, he slowly surveyed him from head to foot, exclaiming: “I’ll bet a five cent piece that I can throw you down, back hold or square hold—fair tussle.”
“I don’t fight,” replied Tom, drawing a little closer to Mr. Hayes for protection.
“Now, sonny, don’t; that’s a good little feller,” said the farmer, coaxingly.