"I have heard of a young gentleman called Jinks," the Squire said, with a sly laugh, "what say you to him for number two?"
"Burn Jinks!" cried Mr. Rushton, "he's a jack-a-napes, and if he comes within the reach of my cane, I'll break it over his rascally shoulders! I'd rather have this Indian cub who has just left us."
"That's all very well; but you can't get him."
"Can't get him?" asked Rushton, grimly, as he got into the saddle.
"He would never consent to coop himself up in Winchester. True, my little Redbud, who is a great friend of his, has taught him to read, and even to write in a measure, but he's a true Indian, whether such by descent or not. He would die of the confinement. Remember what I said about character just now, and acknowledge the blunder you committed when you took the position that there was no such thing."
Rushton growled, and bent his brows on the laughing Squire.
"I said," he replied, grimly, "that there was no character to be found anywhere; and you may take it as you choose, you'll try and extract an argument out of it either way. I don't mean to take part in it. As to this cub of the woods, you say I couldn't make anything of him—see if I don't! You have provoked me into the thing—defied me—and I accept the challenge."
"What! you will capture Verty, that roving bird?"
"Yes; and make of this roving swallow another bird called a secretary. I suppose you've read some natural history, and know there's such a feathered thing."
"Yes."