"Home, to my family."
"What have you got in your saddle-bags?" was next asked.
"Nothing but a calico dress for my wife."
"Well, hand it out; I know a 'print' when I see it," responded he who had made the threatening demonstrations towards the saddle-bags—was even then diving in them.
"O, Uncle Squire," cried Roberta, "won't they give the calico dress back to him? Poor Mrs. Shanks needs it awfully. The one she has on is all faded, and her elbows are out."
"If he's gotter calicer dress en thar fur her," grunted old Squire, "'twill be de fus'. I heered her say he never give her de rappens ob her finger, en dat she wuden min' hees whippen' her ef hee'd unly previde fur her."
He who was diving in Mr. Shanks' saddle-bags, drew thence a long slip of white paper with something printed on it in black letters. He cleared his throat, and read aloud the following:
"Fellow-citizens, I took up arms for my country in the War of 1812, and were it not for the infirmities of age, would be again in the saddle, to drive that notorious horse-thief and scoundrel, John Morgan, from the State."
"You would, hey?" said the soldier. "Well, wait here a little, and see what General Morgan says about that."
A dust was even then arising ahead, and in a few moments a squad of Confederates dashed up. The foremost one, a soldierly looking-man, with a pair of keen, humorous eyes, halted beside the group on the hill-side.