"Shut up about your fish and get out of the way!" stormed the man on the horse. "Am I to be held up here all day by a mere boy?" "Excuse me, but I have as much right on this bridge as you," answered the boy, looking the man straight in the eyes. "Have you indeed?" "I have." "Perhaps you think yourself of just as much importance as a surgeon in the army, on an important mission." "I didn't say that. I said I had just as much right on this bridge as you. It's a public bridge." "Bah! get out of the way and let me pass. I've wasted time enough on you." The man tugged nervously at his heavy mustache. "Which is the way to Tanner's Mill?" To this the youth made no reply. Gathering up his fishing rod and his basket, he stepped to the river bank and prepared to make another cast into the water. "I say, tell me the way to Tanner's Mill," repeated the man. "I reckon you had better go elsewhere for your information," returned the boy quietly, but with a faint smile playing over his handsome, sunburned face. "What, you young rascal, you won't tell me?" stormed the man. "No, I won't. And I beg to let you know I am no rascal." "You are a rascal," was the snappy reply. "Answer my question, or it will be the worse for you," and now the man leaped to the ground and advanced with clenched fists. Possibly he thought the youth would retreat; if so, he was mistaken. "Don't you dare to touch me, sir. I am not your slave." "You'll answer my question." "I will not." "Why not?" "Because you haven't treated me decently; that's why." "You hold a mighty big opinion of yourself." "If I do, that's my own business." "Perhaps you are a Northern mudsill." "No, I am just as loyal to the South as you or anybody." "I wouldn't care to take your word on that point, youngster. I am on an important mission, and if you sympathize with our South in this great war you'll direct me to the short way to Tanner's Mill." "Do they expect a fight at Tanner's Mill?" "Don't bother me with questions. Show me the road, and I'll be off." "Keep to the right and you'll be right," answered the youth, after a pause, and then he resumed his fishing. The man scowled darkly as he leaped again into the saddle. "How I would love to warm you--if I had time," he muttered, then put spurs to his steed and galloped off. "So he is going to Tanner's Mill," mused the boy, when left alone. "If they have a fight there it will be getting pretty close to home. I don't believe mother will like that." As will be surmised from the scene just described, Jack Ruthven was a manly, self-reliant boy, not easily intimidated by those who would browbeat him. He lived in a large mansion, set back some distance from the river, upon what was considered at that time one of the richest plantations in South Carolina.