CHAPTER XXII
RODNEY’S SACRIFICE AND HIS MOTHER’S
One midsummer day Rodney Allison walked along the dusty road. He did not carry his head erect as usual but seemed to be pondering over some problem.
He was a “strapping,” fine looking lad, almost a man grown, and in experience already a man. He stopped before a little gate opening into a pasture and gave three shrill whistles. Over the top of a ridge two pointed ears appeared, poised for an instant, and then their owner galloped into view.
“What a beauty you are, Nat,” said the boy, as if talking to himself, stretching out his hand to stroke the silky nose that was thrust over the fence.
The two standing together formed a picture to afford delight so long as the eye shall admire grace, breeding and power. The boy’s figure was erect, his wavy hair hanging gracefully to his broad shoulders. His face, while not handsome, was clear cut, resolute and showed lines of character not usually graven in the face of one as young. His dark gray eyes always 195 looked at one steadily. Now they were darker than usual and had in them the shadow of trouble.
“Nat, how would you like to change masters?”
The colt nuzzled the boy’s face and then his pockets, in one of which he found the nubbin of corn he sought.
“You rascal, all you care about having is a good commissary. You won’t miss me, will you? Oh, no! I’d thought we’d go to the war together. We would have something worth fighting for, a free country, where a man wouldn’t need to have dukes for uncles in order to be of some consequence in the world. We would show ’em, you and I, that horses and boys raised in this country are as good as the best; but that can’t be. You are too good a horse to drag the plow on this poor little farm. You shall have one of the greatest men in this great land for a master, while I will stay away from the war and both of us may save our precious skins and perhaps be British subjects in the end.”
Nat’s purplish eyes seemed full of comprehension, as he mumbled the lad’s hand with his lips.