A Debt of Honor

“No, I couldn’t eat a mite if anybody was looking,” answered Bess bashfully.

“I feel that way myself,” said Brooke. “Please don’t look at me, Miss Peters. Look at Gerald. It makes no difference to him.”

“What nonsense be you two talkin’?” asked the landlady, as Bess went off into another fit of laughter. “I never saw Bess so silly before.”

“It ain’t me, mother. The man is so funny he makes me laugh.”

The conversation stopped here, as Bess was sent out on an errand by her mother. Gerald and the tourist devoted themselves to eating, and did full justice to the plain but wholesome meal.

“I feel better,” said Noel Brooke, as he rose from the table.

“Folks generally do after eatin’,” observed Mrs. Peters philosophically. “I reckon if you’re through you’d better go out. You’re only in the way here.”

“Mrs. Peters is delightfully unconventional,” remarked Mr. Brooke as in obedience to the plain hint given by their landlady they went out and resumed their seats under a large branching oak tree in the rear of the cabin.

“She has given us a good supper. That’ll pay for her unconventional manners. I wonder what sort of a person her ‘man’ is?”

The question was no sooner suggested than answered. A tall, powerfully built man, clad in buckskin and carrying a rifle, followed by two young men, slighter in figure, but quite as tall, strode from the woods, and halted when they caught sight of Gerald and his companion.

“Who are you, strangers?” asked the old man suspiciously.

“We are travelers,” answered Noel Brooke promptly, “and at present we are guests of Mrs. Peters. Are you Mr. Peters?”

“I run that cabin, if that is what you mean.”

“So I supposed. Then you are my landlord.”

“I’ve got nothin’ to do with that. Ef you’ve made a bargain with Sal it’s all right.”

“We have made a bargain with Mrs. Peters, and she has given us a good supper.”

“I hope there’s something left for us,” growled Peters, “or there’ll be a row.”

The two sons carried between them an antelope, so it looked as if they would not lack for supper.

The three men filed into the cabin, and their wants were provided for without trenching upon the antelope they had brought with them. An hour later they came out, and settled down near the two guests.

“Where do you come from?” demanded Peters with rude curiosity.

“From England, to start with,” answered Noel.

“So you’re a Britisher?”

“If you choose to call me so. I never heard the word till I came across the water.”

“I don’t think much of Britishers.”

“I am sorry to hear it,” said Brooke amused. “May I ask why you are prejudiced against my countrymen?”

“We’ve licked ’em twice, and we can lick ’em again,” answered Peters forcibly.

“I really hope you will have no occasion. So far as I can judge England feels very friendly toward the United States. I must contend, however, that my countrymen know something about fighting.”

“Wal, perhaps they do!” admitted Peters shortly, “but you ain’t no match for us. Take you, for instance, how old be you?”

“Twenty-eight.”

“My Ben, there, is only twenty, and he could double you up in less’n a minute.”

Noel Brooke fixed a critical glance on the tall, awkward, but strongly built youth, indicated as Ben.

“He is certainly taller than I am,” he admitted. There was about six inches’ difference in their respective heights.

“Yes, and he’s tough and wiry. Do you think you could lay him out, Ben?”

Ben grinned and answered shortly, “I reckon!”

Gerald, who had witnessed his friend’s prowess, didn’t feel quite so certain of this.

“I thought you’d crawl,” chuckled the old man, using an expression more common in that locality than further east. “Ben’s a chip of the old block, he is! He can lay out any tarnal Britisher you can fetch round.”

Noel Brooke felt that it was foolish, but this good-natured depreciation of his abilities didn’t fail to nettle him. He again surveyed Ben with a critical eye, and took stock of his points as a fighting man. He saw that as an antagonist he was not to be despised. Yet in his own case he possessed a scientific training to which Ben could lay no claim. Then, again, he was unusually strong and muscular for a man of his small proportions. He felt sure that even if conquered, Ben would not gain an easy victory, and – though it was a risk – he decided to take it.

“I don’t mind having a little contest with your son – friendly of course,” he said quietly, as he rose in a leisurely, almost languid, way from his low seat.

“What!” ejaculated Mr. Peters, almost doubting if he heard aright, “you are willing to tackle Ben?”

“Yes.”

“Ho, ho! this is rich!” said the old man with an irresistible guffaw. “You; oh jeminy!” and he nearly doubled up in a paroxysm of mirth.

“You seem amused,” said the tourist, rather provoked at the old man’s estimate of his fighting ability.

“Excuse me, stranger! You’re the pluckiest man I’ve met in many a long day. It does seem redikilus your standing up against Ben!”

“I won’t hurt him much, dad!” said Ben, opening his mouth in a good-natured grin.

“Of course it’s all in fun,” rejoined Noel Brooke smiling.

“Sartin! But you’d best consider what you’re a undertakin’ before you begin.”

“I have done that.”

“It’s like a boy standin’ up against me.”

“So I am a boy, am I?” asked Brooke with a smile at Gerald.

“You ain’t much bigger’n a boy, that’s a fact. My Ben was as big as you when he was only fifteen years old. Wasn’t you, Ben?”