“I’m right glad you-all have come,” ventured the boy.
The bandmaster swung round in his saddle and saw a small sun-tanned face and two wide eyes intently fixed on his.
“I reckon you don’t know how glad my sister and I are to see you down here,” said the boy politely. “When are you going to have a battle?”
“A battle!” repeated the bandmaster.
“Yes, sir. You’re going to fight, of course, aren’t you?”
“Not if people leave us alone—and leave that railroad alone,” replied the officer, backing his restive horse to the side of the fence as the troopers trotted past into the meadow, fours crowding closely on fours.
“Not fight?” exclaimed the boy, astonished. “Isn’t there going to be a battle?”
“I’ll let you know when there’s going to be one,” said the bandmaster absently.
“You won’t forget, will you?” inquired the boy. “My name is William Stuart Westcote, and I live in that house.” He pointed with his riding whip up the hill. “You won’t forget, will you?”
“No, child, I won’t forget.”