"Can't get him?" asked Rushton, grimly, as he got into the saddle.

"He would never consent to coop himself up in Winchester. True, my
little Redbud, who is a great friend of his, has taught him to read,
and even to write in a measure, but he's a true Indian, whether such
by descent or not. He would die of the confinement. Remember what
I said about _character_ just now, and acknowledge the blunder you
committed when you took the position that there was no such thing."

Rushton growled, and bent his brows on the laughing Squire.

"I said," he replied, grimly, "that there was no character to be found
anywhere; and you may take it as you choose, you'll try and extract an
argument out of it either way. I don't mean to take part in it. As to
this cub of the woods, you say I couldn't make anything of him--see if
I don't! You have provoked me into the thing--defied me--and I accept
the challenge."

"What! you will capture Verty, that roving bird?"

"Yes; and make of this roving swallow another bird called a secretary.
I suppose you've read some natural history, and know there's such a
feathered thing."

"Yes."

"Very well," said Mr. Rushton, kicking his horse, and cramming his
cocked hat down on his forehead. "I'll show you how little you know of
human nature and character. I'll take this wild Indian boy, brought up
in the woods, and as free and careless as a deer, and in six months