make another cast
into the water.

"I say, tell me the way to Tanner's Mill," repeated the man.

"I reckon you had better go elsewhere for your information," returned
the boy quietly, but with a faint smile playing over his handsome,
sunburned face.

"What, you young rascal, you won't tell me?" stormed the man.

"No, I won't. And I beg to let you know I am no rascal."

"You are a rascal," was the snappy reply. "Answer my question, or it
will be the worse for you," and now the man leaped to the ground and
advanced with clenched fists. Possibly he thought the youth would
retreat; if so, he was mistaken.

"Don't you dare to touch me, sir. I am not your slave."

"You'll answer my question."

"I will not."

"Why not?"

"Because you haven't treated me decently; that's why."

"You hold a mighty big opinion of yourself."

"If I do, that's my own business."

"Perhaps you are a Northern mudsill."

"No, I am just as loyal to the South as you or anybody."

"I wouldn't care to take your word on that point, youngster. I am on an
important mission, and if you sympathize with our South in this great
war you'll direct me to the short way to Tanner's Mill."

"Do they expect a fight at Tanner's Mill?"

"Don't bother me with questions. Show me the road, and I'll be off."

"Keep to the right and you'll be right," answered the youth, after a
pause, and then he resumed his fishing.

The man scowled darkly as he leaped again into the saddle. "How I would
love to warm you--if I had time," he muttered, then put spurs to his
steed and galloped off.

"So he is going to Tanner's Mill," mused the boy, when left alone. "If
they have a fight there it will be getting pretty close to home. I don't
believe mother will like that."

As will be surmised from the scene just described, Jack Ruthven was a
manly, self-reliant boy, not easily intimidated by those who would
browbeat him.

He lived in a large mansion, set back some distance from the river, upon
what was considered at that time one of the richest plantations in South
Carolina.

Mrs. Ruthven was a widow, having lost her husband, Colonel Martin
Ruthven, at the bloody battle of Gettysburg. She had one daughter,
Marion, a beautiful young lady of seventeen. Marion and Jack thought the
world of each other and were all but inseparable.

The sudden taking-off of the colonel had proved a great shock both to
the children and to Mrs. Ruthven, and for a long time the lady of th