"But then Jock's just about half witted," put in Fred, faintly. He knew his power was gone, but he wanted to say something.
"Well, what if he is half-witted? He thinks more of his country than you do; twice more, and risk it."
"That's so," cried Joshua Potter. "Fred says if there's another war, he won't go; he never'll stand up for a mark to be shot at, at eleven dollars a month!"
"O, for shame!" exclaimed the captain.
"Now you hush up," said Fred, reddening. "I was only in fun—of course I was! You needn't say anything, Will Parlin; a boy that has a Tory drum!"
"It's a good Whig drum as ever lived!" returned Willy. "But come, now, boys; will we have Jock Winter?"
It was a vote; and the Never-Give-Ups went over the river in a body to invite him. He lived in a log-house with his grandfather, and a negro servant known as Joe Whitehead. Old Mr. Winter was aroused from his afternoon nap by the terrific beating of the drum, and thought the British were coming down upon him.
"Joe! Joe!" cried he. "Get your scythe, Joe, and mow 'em down as fast as they come!"
When the little boys heard of this, it amused them greatly. Mistaken for the British army, indeed! Well, now, that was something worth while!
A happier soul than little, simple, round-shouldered Jock you never saw, unless it was his poor old grandfather. He could keep step with the best of them; but unfortunately he had no decent clothes. This was a great drawback, but Mrs. Parlin and Mrs. Lyman took pity on the boy, and made him a nice suit.