"Mrs. McChesney," said Colonel Clark to Polly Ann, "you look as if you
could make johnny-cake. Have you any meal?"

"That I have," cried Polly Ann, "though it's fair mouldy. Davy, run and
fetch it."

I ran to the pack on the sorrel mare. When I returned Mr. Clark said:--

"That seems a handy boy, Mrs. McChesney."

"Handy!" cried Polly Ann, "I reckon he's more than handy. Didn't he save
my life twice on our way out here?"

"And how was that?" said the Colonel.

"Run and fetch some water, Davy," said Polly Ann, and straightway
launched forth into a vivid description of my exploits, as she mixed the
meal. Nay, she went so far as to tell how she came by me. The young
Colonel listened gravely, though with a gleam now and then in his blue
eyes. Leaning on his long rifle, he paid no manner of attention to the
angry voices near by,--which conduct to me was little short of the
marvellous.

"Now, Davy," said he, at length, "the rest of your history."

"There is little of it, sir," I answered. "I was born in the Yadkin
country, lived alone with my father, who was a Scotchman. He hated a man
named Cameron, took me to Charlestown, and left me with some kin of his
who had a place called Temple Bow, and went off to fight Cameron and the
Cherokees." There I gulped. "He was killed at Cherokee Ford, and--and I
ran away from Temple Bow, and found Polly Ann."

This time I caught something of surprise on the Colonel's face.

"By thunder, Davy," said he, "but you have a clean gift for brief
narrative. Where did you learn it?"

"My father was a gentleman once, and taught me to speak and read," I
answered, as I brought a flat piece of limestone for Polly Ann's baking.

"And what would you like best to be when you grow up, Davy?" he asked.

"Six feet," said I, so promptly that he laughed.

"Faith," said Polly Ann, looking at me comically, "he may be many things,
but I'll warrant he'll never be that."

I have often thought since that young Mr. Clark showed much of the wisdom
of the famous king of Israel on that day. Polly Ann cooked a piece of a
deer which one of the woodsmen had with him, and the quarrel died of
itself when we sat down to this and the johnny-cake. By noon we had taken
up the trace for Harrodstown, marching with scouts ahead and behind. Mr.
Clark walked mostly alone, seemingly wrapped in thought. At times he had
short talks with different men, oftenest--I noted with pride--with Tom
McChesney. And more than once