“How long before this rain began was it that they quitted this house?”
“Not above fifteen minutes.”
“Mistress Ramsay, bring me the rifle and pistol both—and the powder-horn and bullets.”
“As you say, Mr. Horse-Shoe,” answered the dame, as she turned round to leave the room; “but I am sure I can’t suspicion what you mean to do.”
In a few moments the woman returned with the weapons, and gave them to the sergeant.
“Where is Andy?” asked Horse-Shoe.
The hostess went to the door and called her son, and, almost immediately afterwards, a sturdy boy of about twelve or fourteen years of age entered the apartment, his clothes dripping with rain. He modestly and shyly seated himself on a chair near the door, with his soaked hat flapping down over a face full of freckles and not less rife with the expression of an open, dauntless hardihood of character.
“How would you like a scrummage, Andy, with them Scotchmen that stole your mother’s chickens this morning?” asked Horse-Shoe.
“I’m agreed,” replied the boy, “if you will tell me what to do.” . . . . . .
Horse-Shoe now loaded the fire-arms, and having slung the pouch across his body, he put the pistol into the hands of the boy; then shouldering his rifle, he and his young ally left the room. Even on this occasion, serious as it might be deemed, the sergeant did not depart without giving some manifestation of that lightheartedness which no difficulties ever seemed to have the power to conquer. He thrust his head back into the room, after he had crossed the threshold, and said with an encouraging laugh, “Andy and me will teach them, Mistress Ramsay, Pat’s point of war—we will surround the ragamuffins.”