The Ramrodders | Page 8

satiric drawl.
"There was old Lem Ferguson. Lem got to reading books about soul
transmigration or something of the kind, and turned to and let all his
critters loose. Said that one living being didn't have any right to enslave
another living being. Told them to go and be free. And somebody put
his steers in the pound, and vealed two calves and sold 'em, and milked
his cows, and stole his sheep, and ripped the tags out of their ears and
sheared 'em for what wool they had. Luke, I'm no relative of Lem
Ferguson's when it comes to practical politics. I know just as well as
you do who's trying to steal this State, a hunk at a time. They've had the
nerve to tackle my district. But if they think that I'm going to ungrip
and let them grab it they've got a wrong line on old Thornton's
sheepfold."
"What do you need in the way of help?" asked the State chairman.
"Nothing." Thornton turned again to survey his unruly flock. It was
plain that they were baiting their overlord. Presson's acumen in politics
enlightened him. An angry man may be made to antagonize the neutrals
and even to insult his friends--and Thelismer Thornton was not patient
when provoked. There was shrewd management behind this revolt.
Suddenly the yard was full of men, new arrivals. It was an orderly little
army, woodsmen with meal-sack packs, an incoming crew on its march
to the woods. A big man plodded ahead and marshalled them. Thornton
hastened out upon the porch, and the chairman followed. The big man
halted his crew, and leaned his elbows on the porch rail.

"Thought I'd walk 'em early in the cool of the day," he explained, "and
lay off here for dinner and a rest. Pretty good lot of gash-fiddlers, there,
Mr. Thornton. I picked the market for you."
"And I'll sample 'em right now," said the Duke, grimly. "Ben, tell 'em
to drop those duffel-bags and rush that gang of steers out of my yard."
He pointed at the flock of constituents. Niles had begun fresh harangue
in regard to despots, addressing the new arrivals. They did not seem to
be especially interested. There were a few long-legged Prince Edward
Islanders, but most of them were wiry little French Canadians, who did
not seem to understand much of the orator's tumultuous speech.
"If you've got a crew that's any good on a log-landing, we'll find it out,"
added the Duke. "Get at 'em!"
"Good gaddlemighty!" gasped Presson, "you ain't going to do anything
like that!"
"You watch."
"Politics?" queried the big boss, swinging about to go to his crew. He
grinned. It was evident that he considered that anything under that
general head was in the Duke's supreme control, and that his employer's
orders absolved him.
"It's just what they've been trying to prod into you--it's their game,"
adjured Presson, beating expostulating palms upon Thornton's breast.
"Then it has worked," the old man replied, calmly. He pushed the
chairman aside. "Rush'em, Ben, and, if they don't go easy, toss 'em over
the fence."
The big boss sauntered among his crew and growled a few crisp
commands. The smile he wore gave the affair the appearance of a lark,
and the woodsmen took it in that spirit. But the mob was sullen. Those
who were not active rebels had been stung by the contempt that their
leader now displayed. Some resisted when the woodsmen pushed them
half playfully. A burly fellow stood his ground. Ivus Niles lurked at his

back.
"The folks up in the Jo Quacca Mountains will snicker in good shape
when I tell 'em that Fightin' MacCracken let himself be dumped out of
Duke Thornton's dooryard by a pack of lard-eating Quedaws," he
sneered in the giant's ear.
MacCracken swept away the first three men with swinging cuffs. He
was thinking of his reputation at home. The taunt pricked him.
"Call 'em off--call 'em off, sir," pleaded Davis. "I've been trying to get
these men out of your yard. I don't approve of Niles. Let's have our
politics clean, Mr. Thornton. I'm willing to argue with you. But don't
let's have it said outside that Fort Canibas' politics is run by
plug-uglies."
"He's right, Thelismer; you're letting them score a point on you,"
protested Presson.
But Thornton had been too grievously wounded that day to be able to
listen to peace measures. He strode down off the porch, shouting
commands. His men were willing, and MacCracken's defiance gave
them the provocation they wanted.
"If it's fight you're looking for, you spike-horn stag," announced the
boss, bursting through the press to reach the Jo Quacca champion, "we
can open a full assortment, and no trouble to show goods."
He knocked MacCracken flat, reaching over