“There would too,” flashed back Jeanne. “My great-grandfather fought in the Revolution, and there were plenty who fought that were not Southerners.”
“And who led them, pray?” demanded Bob. “Why, George Washington, a Southerner. Who wrote the Declaration of Independence? Thomas Jefferson, a Southerner. Who got up the Constitution? Why James Madison, a Southerner. And mind you, Jeanne Vance, this country couldn’t be run at first except by Southerners. Out of the first five presidents, four were Southerners.”
“Washington, Adams, Jefferson, Madison, Monroe,” and Jeanne counted them on her fingers. “John Adams was a Massachusetts man.”
“Phew!” and Bob’s lips curled scornfully. “And the people were so sick of him that they only let him stay in four years. They were glad enough to get back to us. I am sure that I don’t wonder. I don’t see how they could stand a New Englander.”
“I’m afraid that you’ll have to,” said Jeanne, wrathfully. “They are the best people in the world. One of them is worth a dozen Southerners.”
“He isn’t,” blazed Bob. “He––”
“Why, what does this mean?” cried a voice from without the tent. “Bob, is that the way you treat a guest? I am surprised.”
“It’s dad!” exclaimed Bob, rapidly untying the flap of the tent. “Come in.”
To Jeanne’s surprise she saluted her father military fashion instead of kissing him. The gentleman entered–a tall, black-haired, black-eyed man of splendid military bearing and courtly mien. His eyes were twinkling, but he spoke to his daughter in rather a stern tone.
“Is this the way to entertain a guest, my child? I suppose that this is the young lady that Johnson brought in last night.”