“'Twan't the land, sir,” he stammered; “these varmints of settlers is gittin' thick as flies in July. 'Twas Polly Ann. I reckon I'm obleeged to ye, Major.”
“There, there,” said the Major, “I thank the Lord I came to Kentucky to see for myself. Damn the land. I have plenty more,—and little else.” He turned quizzically to Colonel Clark, revealing a line of strong, white teeth. “Suppose we drink a health to your drummer boy,” said he, lifting up his gourd.
[CHAPTER IV]
I cross the Mountains once more
“'Tis what ye've a right to, Davy,” said Polly Ann, and she handed me a little buckskin bag on which she had been sewing. I opened it with trembling fingers, and poured out, chinking on the table, such a motley collection of coins as was never seen,—Spanish milled dollars, English sovereigns and crowns and shillings, paper issues of the Confederacy, and I know not what else. Tom looked on with a grin, while little Tom and Peggy reached out their hands in delight, their mother vigorously blocking their intentions.
“Ye've earned it yerself,” said Polly Ann, forestalling my protest; “'tis what ye got by the mill, and I've laid it by bit by bit for yer eddication.”
“And what do you get?” I cried, striving by feigned anger to keep the tears back from my eyes. “Have you no family to support?”
“Faith,” she answered, “we have the mill that ye gave us, and the farm, and Tom's rifle. I reckon we'll fare better than ye think, tho' we'll miss ye sore about the place.”