backwoodsmen, lounging against the wall or brawling over their claims,
the sleek agents and attorneys, and half a dozen of a newer type. These
were adventurous young gentlemen of family, some of them lawyers and some
of them late officers in the Continental army who had been rewarded with
grants of land. These were the patrons of the log tavern which stood
near by with the blackened stumps around it, where there was much
card-playing and roistering, ay, and even duelling, of nights.

"Thar's Mac," cried a backwoodsman who was sitting on the court-house
steps as we rode up. "Howdy, Mac; be they tryin' to git your land, too?"

"Howdy, Mac," said a dozen more, paying a tribute to Tom's popularity.
And some of them greeted me.

"Is this whar they take a man's land away?" says Tom, jerking his thumb
at the open door.

Tom had no intention of uttering a witticism, but his words were followed
by loud guffaws from all sides, even the lawyers joining in.

"I reckon this is the place, Tom," came the answer.

"I reckon I'll take a peep in thar," said Tom, leaping off his horse and
shouldering his way to the door. I followed him, curious. The building
was half full. Two elderly gentlemen of grave demeanor sat on stools
behind a puncheon table, and near them a young man was writing. Behind
the young man was a young gentleman who was closing a speech as we
entered, and he had spoken with such vehemence that the perspiration
stood out on his brow. There was a murmur from those listening, and I
saw Tom pressing his way to the front.