"Don't you be buying any more books! You hear me?"

He swung away, and his son stood under the sycamore tree and looked
after him with a darkened face. Gaudylock put a hand upon his shoulder.
"Never mind, Lewis! Before we part I'm going to talk to Gideon." He
laughed. "Do you know what the Cherokees call me? They call me
Golden-Tongue. Because, you see, I can persuade them to 'most
anything,--always into the war-path, and sometimes out of it! Gideon may
be obstinate, but he can't be as obstinate as an Indian. Now let's go to
Mocket's."

The way to Mocket's lay down a steep hillside, and along the river-bank,
under a drift of coloured leaves, and by the sound of falling water.
Mocket dwelt in a small house, in a small green yard with a broken gate.
A red creeper mantled the tiny porch, and lilac bushes, clucked under by
a dozen hens, hedged the grassy yard. As the hunter and Lewis Rand
approached, a little girl, brown and freckled, barefoot and dressed in
linsey, sprang up from the stone before the gate, and began to run
towards the house. Her foot caught in a trailing vine, and down she
fell. Adam was beside her at once. "Why, you little partridge!" he
exclaimed, and lifted her to her feet.

"It's Vinie Mocket," said his companion. "Vinie, where's your father?"

"I don't know, thir," answered Vinie. "Tom knows. Tom's down there, at
the big ship. I'll tell him."

She slipped from Gaudylock's clasp and pattered off toward the river,
where the brig from Barbadoes showed hull and masts. The hunter sat down
upon the porch step, and drew out his tobacco pouch. "She's like a