“Tramp, tramp, tramp, the boys are marching;
Cheer up, comrades, they will come.”
“I suppose it isn’t worth while,” said the man, seating himself on the porch-steps and wiping the perspiration from his forehead. “The boys are not so much to blame. It’s their parents who instill into their minds that spirit of intolerance, who deserve to be chastened. Now you can see, Robert,” turning to the boy, “the extremes to which the Northern adherents of Lincoln’s cause carry their hate for those who will not agree with them.”
“I know, father, I know. It’s an outrage. They have treated me even worse than they have you. And yet—and yet I can’t believe Lincoln is to blame for it.”
For once the defense of Lincoln did not arouse Bannister’s ire. He was too deeply interested in what the boy had said of himself.
“And how have they treated you, Robert? What have they done to you?”
“Oh, nothing much. Only they say you’re a copperhead, and they—they—”
“Well?”
“They think I must be a copperhead, too.”
“So! Well, it’s not a pretty name, to be sure, but it stands for something in these days. And suppose you were a copperhead, what then?”