ays
man was afraid to do these things; now if he has money he is afraid of
neither God, man, nor the devil. To speak frankly, that is why I am so
independent myself. I am sure of enough to support me as long as I live;
I owe no man anything, and I allow no man to owe me anything."

Quincy, changing the subject, inquired, "What is your method of killing
chickens?"

Uncle Ike said, "Let me tell you why I devised a new plan. When I was
about eight years old I went with my mother to visit an uncle in a
neighboring town. I was born in Eastborough myself, in the old
Pettengill house. But this happened some twenty miles from here. My
uncle was chopping wood, and boy like, I went out to watch him. An old
rooster kept running around the block, flapping its wings, making
considerable noise. Uncle shooed him off three or four times. Finally
uncle made a grab at him, caught him by the legs, whacked him down on
the block and with his axe cut off his head close to his body, and then
threw it out on the grass right in front of me. Was that rooster dead? I
thought not. It got up on its legs, ran right towards where I was
sitting, and before I could get away I was covered with the blood that
came from its neck. I don't know how far the rooster ran, but I know I
never stopped until I was safe in my mother's arms. The balance of the
time I stayed there you couldn't get me within forty yards of my uncle,
for every time I met him I could see myself running around without my
head."

"That made a lasting impression on you," remarked Quincy.

"Yes," said Uncle Ike, "it has lasted me sixty-eight years, one month,
and thirteen days," pointing to a calendar that hung on the wall.

As Quincy looked in the direction indicated he saw something hanging
beside it that attracted his attention.

It was a sheet of white paper with a heavy black border. Within the
border were written these words, "Sacred to the memory of Isaac
Pettengill, who was killed at the battle of Gettysburg, July 4th, 1863,
aged twenty-nine years. He died for his namesake and his native land."

Quincy said interrogatively, "Did you lose a son in the war?"

"No," was the reply. "I never had a son. That was my substitute."

"Strange that your substitute should have the same name as yourself."

"Yes, it would have been if he had, but he didn't. His right name was
Lemuel Butters. But I didn't propose to put my money into such a name as
that."

"Were you drafted?" asked Qui