"Go," said his father, giving him a slight cuff.

"Here, boy!" yelled LeNoir, catching him by the arm and holding the
bottle to his mouth, "drink." The boy took a gulp, choked, and spat
it out. LeNoir and his men roared. "Dat good whiskey," he cried, still
holding the boy. "You not lak dat, hey?"

"No," said the boy, "it is not good at all."

"Try heem some more," said LeNoir, thrusting the bottle at him again.

"I will not," said Ranald, looking at LeNoir straight and fearless.

"Ho-ho! mon brave enfant! But you have not de good mannere. Come,
drink!" He caught the boy by the back of the neck, and made as if to
pour the whiskey down his throat. Black Hugh, who had been kept back by
Yankee Jim all this time, started forward, but before he could take a
second step Ranald, squirming round like a cat, had sunk his teeth into
LeNoir's wrist. With a cry of rage and pain LeNoir raised the bottle and
was bringing it down on Ranald's head, when Black Hugh, with one hand,
caught the falling blow, and with the other seized Ranald, and crying,
"Get out of this!" he flung him towards the door. Then turning to
LeNoir, he said, with surprising self-control, "It is myself that is
sorry that a boy of mine should be guilty of biting like a dog."

"Sa-c-r-re le chien!" yelled LeNoir, shaking off Macdonald Dubh; "he is
one dog, and the son of a dog!" He turned and started for the boy. But
Yankee Jim had got Ranald to the door and was whispering to him. "Run!"
cried Yankee Jim, pushing him out of the door, and the boy was off like