The professor did not feel called upon to defend the character of Napoleon, and so silence once more descended upon them. Bartlett seemed a good deal disturbed by the news he had just heard of the Revolution, and he growled to himself, while the horses suffered more than usual from the whip and the hauling back that invariably followed the stroke. Yates was some distance ahead, and swinging along at a great rate, when the horses, apparently of their own accord, turned in at an open gateway and proceeded, in their usual leisurely fashion, toward a large barn, past a comfortable frame house with a wide veranda in front.
“This is my place,” said Bartlett shortly.
“I wish you had told me a few minutes ago,” replied the professor, springing off, “so that I might have called to my friend.”
“I’m not frettin’ about him,” said Bartlett, throwing the reins to a young man who came out of the house.
Renmark ran to the road and shouted loudly to the distant Yates. Yates apparently did not hear him, but something about the next house attracted the pedestrian’s attention, and after standing for a moment and gazing toward the west he looked around and saw the professor beckoning to him. When the two men met, Yates said:
“So we have arrived, have we? I say, Stilly, she lives in the next house. I saw the buggy in the yard.”
“She? Who?”
“Why, that good-looking girl we passed on the road. I’m going to buy our supplies at that house, Stilly, if you have no objections. By the way, how is my old friend 1812?”
“He doesn’t seem to harbor any harsh feelings. In fact, he was more troubled about the Revolution than about the blow you gave him.”
“News to him, eh? Well, I’m glad I knocked something into his head.”