"He wanted my scalp, I think, for when I named myself and said I lived at Fonda's Bush, he fetched me a knock with his frozen mittens,—Lord, Jack, I saw a star or two, I warrant you; and a gay stream squirted from my nose upon the snow and presently the whole wintry world looked red to me, so I let fly a fist or two at the old man, and he let fly a few more at me.
"'Dammy!' says he, 'I'll learn ye to foller my darters, you poor dum Boston critter! I'll drum your hide from Fundy's Bush to Canady!'
"But after I had rolled him in the snow till his scratch-wig fell off, he became more civil—quite polite for a Tory with his mouth full o' snow.
"So I went with him to his sledge and made a polite bow to the ladies—who looked excited but seemed inclined to smile when I promised to pass by Pigeon-Wood some day."
"A rough wooing," said I, laughing.
"Rough on old man Browse. But he's gone with Guy Johnson."
"What! To Canada? The beast!"
"Aye. So I thought to stop some day at Pigeon-Wood to see if the cote were entirely empty or no. Lord, what a fight we had, old Browse and I, there in the snow of the Mayfield road! And he burly as an October bear—a man all knotted over with muscles, and two fists that slapped you like the front kick of a moose! Oh, Lordy! Lordy! What a battle was there.... What bright eyes hath that little jade Betsy, of Pigeon-Wood!"
Now, as he spoke, I had a mind to see this same Tory girl of Pigeon-Wood; and presently admitted to him my curiosity.
And then, just as we had mounted and were gathering bridles and searching for our stirrups with moccasined toes, comes a galloper in scarlet jacket and breeks, with a sealed letter waved high to halt me.