“I could scarcely put it that way,” replied Dick, refusing to be angered, “unless you call an encounter with fists something in common. He and I had a great fight at his father's plantation of Bellevue.”
“He might have been in a better business, taking part in a common brawl with a common Yankee.”
“But, sir, while I may be common, I'm not a Yankee. I was born and grew up south of the Ohio River in Kentucky.”
“Then you're a traitor. All you Kentuckians ought to be fighting with us.”
“Difference of opinion, but I hope your nephew is well.”
The deep eyes under the thick white thatch glared in a manner that Dick considered wholly unnecessary. But Colonel Woodville made no reply, merely turning his face to the wall as if he were weary.
Dick hurried into the hall, closing the door gently behind him. The others, not missing him, were already some yards away, and he quickly rejoined Pennington and Warner. The younger men would have been glad to leave the house, but Colonel Winchester's blood was up, and he was resolved to stay. The little party was eight in number, and they were soon quartered in four rooms on the lower floor. Miss Woodville promptly disappeared, and one of the camp cooks arrived with supplies, which he took to the kitchen.
Dick and Warner were in one of the rooms, and, removing their belts and coats, they made themselves easy. It was a large bedroom with high ceilings and wicker furniture. There were several good paintings on the walls and a bookcase contained Walter Scott's novels and many of the eighteenth century classics.
“I think this must have been a guest chamber,” said Dick, “but for us coming from the rain and mud it's a real palace.”
“Then it's fulfilling its true function,” said Warner, “because it has guests now. What a strange household! Did you ever see such a peppery pair as that swearing old colonel and his acid daughter?”