ancestors were warring in his veins. His mother had been a full-blooded
Indian from Wyland Island, had drawn her four dollars every year from the
English Government, and ruled her family with an iron hand; his father
was Scotch-Irish, hot-blooded and jovial; Jerry-Jo was a composite
result. Handsome, moody, with flashes of fun when not crossed, a good
comrade at times, an unforgiving enemy.

He liked Priscilla, but she was his inferior, by sex, and she sorely
needed discipline. He meant to keep her in her place, so he kept on
reading. Priscilla at length, however, attracted his attention.

"Hey-ho, Jerry-Jo!"

"Hullo!"

"Where did you get the book?"

"It's for him up yonder."

And with this Jerry-Jo stood up, turned and twisted his lithe body into
such a grotesque distortion that he was quite awful to look upon, and
left no doubt in the girl's mind as to whom he referred. He brought the
Far Hill people into focus, sharply and suddenly.

"He has miles of books," Jerry-Jo went on, "and a fiddle and pictures and
gewgaws. He plays devil tunes, and he's bewitched!"

This description made the vague boy of the woods real and vital for the
first time in Priscilla's life, and she shuddered. Then Jerry-Jo
generously offered to lend her one of the books until his father came