us set to work with all our might, Poulsson making great
holes in the ground at every stroke, Polly Ann scraping at the dirt with
the gourd. Two feet below the surface we struck the edge of the lowest
log, and then it was Poulsson who got into the hole with his hunting
knife--perspiring, muttering to himself, working as one possessed with
a fury, while we scraped out the dirt from under him. At length, after
what seemed an age of staring at his legs, the ground caved on him,
and he would have smothered if we had not dragged him out by the heels,
sputtering and all powdered brown. But there was the daylight under the
log.

Again Cowan shouted at Ray, and again, but he did not understand. It was
then the miracle happened. I have seen brave men and cowards since, and
I am as far as ever from distinguishing them. Before we knew it Poulsson
was in the hole once more--had wriggled out of it on the other side, and
was squirming in a hail of bullets towards Ray. There was a full minute
of suspense--perhaps two--during which the very rifles of the fort were
silent (though the popping in the weeds was redoubled), and then the
barrel of a Deckard was poked through the hole. After it came James
Ray himself, and lastly Poulsson, and a great shout went out from the
loopholes and was taken up by the women in the common.

* * * * * * *

Swein Poulsson had become a hero, nor was he willing to lose any of the
glamour which was a hero's right. As the Indians' fire slackened, he
went from cabin to cabin, and if its occupants failed to mention the
exploit (some did fail so to do, out of mischief), Swein would say:--

"You did not see me safe James, no? I vill tell you Joost how."

It never leaked out that Swein was first of all under the bed, for Polly
Ann and Bill Cowan and myself swore to keep the secret. But they
told how I had thought of digging the hole under the logs--a happy
circumstance which got me a reputation for wisdom beyond my years. There
was a certain Scotchman at Harrodstown called McAndrew, and it was
he gave me the nickname "Canny Davy," and I grew to have a sort of
precocious fame in the station. Often Captain Harrod or Bowman or some
of the others would pause in their arguments and say gravely, "What does
Davy think of it?" This was not good for a boy, and the wonder of it is
that it did not make me altogether insupportable. One effect it had on
me--to make me long even more earnestly to be a man.

The im