The other man smiled, that superior, much-amused smile of the wise man arguing with the ignoramus. "And the sheep don't make enemies of the wolves either," said he. "The sheep are peaceable beasts, tending to their own concerns. But that doesn't keep the wolves from preying on them, does it? Not by a long chalk, my friend Diggs. As for the Indians, it's only your good fortune that you haven't stirred them up to attack you. You don't think they care any more for you because you make treaties with them, and give them beads and trinkets for their land, and smoke their pipe of peace?" "We've been thinking that," answered Gregory. "We thought we'd been treating them as good Christians should." "Oh, you foolish Quakers!" said Hackett. "You're worse than sheep; you're like the ostriches that stick their heads in the sand. Look here. Suppose the Indians should drink too much fire-water some day and make a raid on your farms; where would your treaties be then? Or suppose,--what's much more likely,--that this French privateer captain should take it into his head to sail up the Delaware and levy a ransom on your prosperous people, and maybe carry off some of your fine Quaker gentlemen as prisoners. What would you do then?" Gregory scratched his head. "I suppose we'd try to fight them off," he concluded. "But you wouldn't be ready. You wouldn't have enough guns, and powder and shot. And you wouldn't know what to do with the guns if you had them." "Well," the shoemaker repeated patiently, "what would you have us do, Mr. Hackett?" "I want you to prepare, Diggs, I want you to prepare. That's what His Majesty's other colonies have done. I want you to make sure you have enough guns and ammunition on hand, and know how to use the muskets. I want you to set sentries along the river and outposts through the country to give you warning of any possible attack. And above all I want you to get rid of this Quaker notion that you can go on getting rich and prosperous without rousing envy in your neighbors." "You don't see much riches right here," said Gregory, glancing round at his simple, meagrely-furnished shop. "No, not here, my honest old friend," agreed Hackett, and he got up and slapped the shoemaker on the shoulder in a friendly fashion. "But most of the Philadelphia people aren't like you. They're fat and easy-going, and they wear good clothes and live in fine houses. They like their comfort, these people of William Penn." "They look more like you than like me," said Gregory, smiling. The stout man laughed. "Why, so they do, so they do. But don't put me down for one of them! I'm no Quaker, Diggs. I'm a good Church of England man, and I believe in musket and powder-horn." He picked up his walking-stick, which leaned against his chair, and flourishing it round his head shot it forward toward Jack Felton as if it had been a dueling-sword. "There, my young friend," said he, "how would you parry that? But I forget, Quaker lads aren't taught how to fence."