"So I have heard."

"But some say that he wants the lands for himself."

"How is that?" asked Eben, innocently.

"Why, I have heard a man say--he came from Fort Ticonderoga--that if Allen can get his way there will be a fight. Then he will surrender and will recognize York, and as a reward will get the best farms."

"It's a----"

Eben was about to give the boy a piece of his mind, but checked himself in time.

"It's a what?" asked the lad.

"Very unlikely story, I was about to say, but thought that I would not."

"Why?"

"Because a man who would think such a thing about Col. Allen is not worth contradicting."

"Oh, that is it. So you believe in this man, Allen?"

"I do."

"So does father. He says that he will stick by him as long as he has a hand to hold a gun."

"What is your father's name?"

"Why do you want to know?"

"Only he might help me to find a good piece of farm land which I could get by applying."

"So he might. Well, my father is Ezekiel Garvan--Old Zeke, they call him round about. Glad to see you when you are near. See, that is our house over yon, where the smoke is rising up from among the trees."

"And what is your name?" asked Eben.

"I am called Zeb; it is short for Zebedee. What is your name?"

Incautiously he answered, truthfully:

"Ebenezer Pike is my name."

The boys separated, and Eben returned to the camp, feeling pleased with himself to think he had found a good friend, as he never doubted old Zeke would be.

Zeb stood watching Eben for a time, and then he too returned home.

"My old dad used to blame me for listening, and used to say that little pitchers had big ears, when anyone was there, just to prevent them talking, but the big ears will be useful now, or I am not fit to be my father's son."

CHAPTER IX.

TREACHERY.

Zebedee was flushed and excited when he entered the paternal dwelling.

He had been away all day, and knew that he was likely to get a good thrashing for neglect of his work.

Ezekiel was waiting for him very patiently.

Zeb had taken all in at a glance. There was a thick beechen stick standing by the chimney corner, and old Zeke was not far from it.

One of his most favored pa.s.sages of the Bible was the one in which the spoiling of the child is said to be caused by the small use of the rod.

Zeb knew what it meant.

He had often felt the strength of his father's muscles, and he fully realized that if he was spoiled it was not because the rod had been spared.

Only three mornings before Zeb had entered the kitchen, which served as dining room as well, and had partaken of his breakfast standing, and at the midday meal he still preferred an upright position instead of the one adopted by the other members of his family.

To be accurate and truthful, it was a rare thing for Zeb to be able to sit down with any comfort, for his interviews with his father were very frequent and generally of a very painful nature.

He entered the kitchen looking more defiant than his brothers or sister had ever seen him.

Zeke did not speak.

He took off his coat and rolled up his homespun linen shirt sleeves.

Then he reached out and got the beechen stick.

Zebedee waited.

He knew that there was a certain formula to be gone through.

His father never thrashed him while angry; he always catechised him, then waited a few minutes before plying the stick or the whip.

"Zeb, did you sort those potatoes?"

"No."

"Did you learn that verse from the Bible the elder told you to commit to memory?"

"No."

"Playing all day?"

"Yes."

"Then I must use the rod, or my son will be ruined."