“I hope we shall not meet any; but if we do, I am in no humor to lose my horse or my boots,” replied Somers. “But we may meet so many of them that it would be better to trust to our horses’ heels than to the quality of our steel.”
“True—too many would not be agreeable; but, say a dozen or twenty of them. We could whip that number without difficulty. The fact is, gentlemen, I am a fighting man. There has been too much of this looking at the enemy, and then running away. I repeat, gentlemen, I am a fighting man.”
“I am glad to hear it, and glad to have met you, for I am told there are a good many of these small plundering parties loose about this region; and I would rather fight than lose my boots,” laughed Somers.
“Three of us can do a good thing,” added the major.
“Four,” suggested Somers.
“Four?”
“My man can fight.”
“But he is a nigger; niggers won’t fight.”
“He will. By the way, he came from your uncle’s, at Petersburg.”
“Alick!” exclaimed the major, glancing back at the servant.