As I sat there on the porch, wretched, restless, debating what course I
should take in the presence of this growing disorder which, as I have
said, had already invaded our own tenantry, came Sir Lupus a-waddling,
pipe in hand, and Cato bearing his huge chair so he might sit in the
sun, which was warm on the porch.
"You've heard what my tenant rascals have done?" he grunted, settling in
his chair and stretching his fat legs.
"Yes, sir," I said.
"What d' ye think of it? Eh? What d' ye think?"
"I think it is very pitiful and sad to see these poor creatures leaving
their little farms to face the British regulars--and starvation."
"Face the devil!" he snorted. "Nobody forces 'em!"
"The greater honor due them," I retorted.
"Honor! Fol-de-rol! Had it been any other patroon but me, he'd turn his
manor-house into a court-house, arrest 'em, try 'em, and hang a few for
luck! In the old days, I'll warrant you, the Cosbys would have stood no
such nonsense--no, nor the Livingstons, nor the Van Cortlandts. A
hundred lashes here and there, a debtor's jail, a hanging or two, would
have made things more cheerful. But I, curse me if I could ever bring
myself to use my simplest prerogatives; I can't whip a man, no! I can't
hang a man for anything--even a sheep-thief has his chance with me--like
that great villain, Billy Bones, who turned renegade and joined Danny
Redstock and the McCraw.
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