The weather turned very warm, as it was now almost July. So far as
the heat was concerned Harry could not see any difference between
Pennsylvania and Kentucky and Virginia. In all three the sun blazed
at this time of the year, but the country was heavy with crops, now
ripening fast. It was a region that Harry liked. He had a natural
taste for broken land with slopes, forests, and many little streams of
clear water. Most of the fields were enclosed in stone fences, and the
great barns and well-built houses indicated prosperous farmers.

He and Dalton rode up to one of these houses, and, finding every door
and window closed, knocked on the front door with a pistol butt.
They knew it was occupied, as they had seen smoke coming from the
chimney.

"This house surely belongs to a Dutchman," said Dalton, meaning one
of those Pennsylvanians of German descent who had settled in the rich
southeast of Pennsylvania generations ago.

"I fear they don't know how to talk English," said Harry.

"They can if they have to. Hit that door several times more, Harry,
and hit it hard. They're a thrifty people, and they wouldn't like to
see a good door destroyed."

Harry beat a resounding tattoo until the door was suddenly thrown open
and the short figure of a man of middle years, chin-whiskered and gray,
but holding an old-fashioned musket in his hands, confronted them.

"Put down that gun, Herr Schneider! Put it down at once!" said Dalton,