“You are a marvellous shot,” was all she said.
“I served under your uncle in the Cuban War,” the young man told her. “We had sharp fighting then, Miss Adgate. But we're well drilled, here in Oldbridge—not a man jack of us but can pick an ace on a playing card at fifty paces. That's all due to your uncle who supervises the rifle-practice at the Armoury, to say nothing of coaching us in military tactics, which he's past master in.”
“Ah!” said Ruth, interested. “I supposed he was the most peaceable of retired military men.”
“Peaceable and retired if you like. But in times of peace, prepare for war.... The way we are made to answer up to call on drill nights would cause your blood to freeze, Miss Adgate.”
“Ma ché! I thought I'd come to a quiet, sleepy New England town where all was love and peace! The day after I arrive I learn I am in a hotbed of militarism,” laughed Ruth.
“You're right,” the young man replied seriously, striding beside her. “General Adgate, you see, has been through two wars. He received his brevet of General in the war between the North and the South. He realises the importance of preparing for emergencies, now that we've taken our place among the nations. He's a splendid chap. Not one of us but would walk or fight our way to death for him.... And it's always been so. Why, they tell this story when he was just a Captain, in the War of Secession. The enemy was pouring bomb and shell into his entrenchments. He ordered his soldiers on their bellies, and in the midst of the cannonading up he got, stood,—coolly lighting a cigarette: 'Now, my men,' said he, 'rush for them!' The men rose in a body, leapt the entrenchments, fell upon the enemy. Of course the enemy was routed! we captured and brought back guns and ammunition with cheers to camp. Then it was, I believe, he was breveted General Adgate.”
Ruth had a shiver of pride as she listened. “But now,” continued her informant, “worse luck, in these cowardly moneyed times, there's no fun to be got out of war! You stand up, of course, to be slaughtered wholesale. Now—the best shot has little hope of bringing down his man—there's nothing to practise on but quail and partridge in the old General's woods.”
“And snakes,” put in Ruth, laughing.
“Snakes,” repeated the young fellow, with a merry laugh. “Thrice blessed copperheads!” went his mental reservation,—so quickly is youth inflamed in America. “But a bounty's on every one of these wretches, Miss Adgate,” he said aloud (and Ruth, fortunately, perhaps, was not a mind reader.) “They've almost disappeared. Truth is, like the rest of us, this one came out to welcome you, poor devil, and he's met with a sad end! Since the new law a snake may not look at a lady.”
They had reached, as they strolled, the foot of the Adgate hill. As they neared the gate the young man paused.