"Watched hens never lay," said I. "Let them come with us. While they remain under our eyes the stale old plan they brood will addle like a cluck-egg." Salisbury nodded meaningly: "So that I can see my enemy," growled he, "I have no care concerning him. But let him out o' sight and I fret like a chained beagle." As he finished speaking we came into Stoner's clearing, which was but a thicket of dead weed-stalks in a fallow field fenced by split rails. Fallow, indeed, lay all the Stoner clearing, save for a patch o' hen-scratched garden at the log-cabin's dooryard; for old Henry Stoner and his forest-running sons were none too fond of dallying with plow and hoe while rifle and fish-pole rested across the stag-horn's crotch above the chimney-piece. And if ever they fed upon anything other than fish and flesh, I do not know; for I never saw aught growing in their garden, save a dozen potato-vines and a stray corn-stalk full o' worms. Around the log house in the clearing already were gathered a dozen or sixteen men, the greater number wearing the tow-cloth rifle-frock of the district militia. Other men began to arrive as we came up. Everywhere great, sinewy hands were extended to greet us; old Henry Stoner, sprawling under an apple tree, saluted us with a harsh pleasantry; and I saw the gold rings shining in his ears. Nick came over to where I stood, full of that devil's humour which so often urged him into--and led him safely out of--endless scrapes betwixt sun-up and moon-set every day in the year. "It's Sir John we're to take, I hear," he said to me with a grin. "They say the lying louse of a Baronet has been secretly plotting with Guy Johnson and the Butlers in Canada. What wonder, then, that our Provincial Congress has its belly full of these same Johnstown Tories and must presently spew them up. And they say we are to march on the Hall at noon and hustle our merry Baronet into Johnstown jail." I felt myself turning red. "Is it not decent to give Sir John the benefit of doubt until we learn why that bell is ringing?" said I. "There we go!" cried Nick Stoner. "Just because your father loved Sir William and you may wear gold lace on your hat, you feel an attachment to all quality. Hearken to me, John Drogue: Sir William is dead and the others are as honourable as a pack of Canada wolves." He climbed to the top of the rickety rail fence and squatted there. "The landed gentry of Tryon County are a pack of bloody wolves," said he, lighting his cob pipe;--"Guy Johnson, Colonel Claus, Walter Butler, every one of them--every one!--only excepting you, John Drogue! Look, now, where they're gathering in the Canadas--Johnsons, Butlers, McDonalds,--the whole Tory pack--with Brant and his Mohawks stole away, and Little Abraham like to follow with every warrior from the Lower Castle!