"He's worse than Turkey and China," she said, drawing the strings of her "snack-bag" viciously tight. "He's meaner and crueler than a satrap—or—a Mameluke!"
The sound of voices and laughter broke in upon her gloomy reverie. Peeping between the overhanging boughs she saw what made her crouch lower in her covert.
The creek was wide, and at this season shallow at this point. When swollen by winter and spring rains it was so deep and swift that a bridge had been built over it high above the present level. Coming from the direction of Greenfield, two women and a man had just reached the bridge. They were Miss Emily and Miss Eliza Duncombe, and Mr. Tayloe. He was on his way back to school, and the young ladies had walked part of the way with him. The party stopped on the bridge and leaned over the railing.
"If Miss Emily had seen him this morning, she wouldn't let him stand so close to her," reflected Flea. "She'd sooner push him into the water."
Miss Emily had no present intention of doing anything of the sort. She seemed upon the best possible terms with her brothers' teacher. He had a gun upon his shoulder. The woods were full of game, and he might knock over a bird or "an old hare" in his walks back and forth to the school-house. In the noon stillness Flea could hear what Miss Emily's high-pitched voice was saying:
"I tell you I can shoot beautifully. Just let me try."
And in answer to something he said: "I dare you to hit that stump in the water over yonder. The stump with the red leaves on it."
Mr. Tayloe raised the gun and fired. The leaves flew in every direction, and the shot pattered in the water.
Miss Emily clapped her hands and screamed with delight; there was a confused chatter for a moment, all three talking together, while Mr. Tayloe reloaded the gun and handed it to the young lady.
