CHAPTER II.

SAMMY LANE.


Preachin' Bill, says, "Hit's a plumb shame there ain't more men in
th' world built like old man Matthews and that thar boy o' his'n.
Men like them ought t' be as common as th' other kind, an' would
be too if folks cared half as much 'bout breeding folks as they do
'bout raising hogs an' horses."

Mr. Matthews was a giant. Fully six feet four inches in height,
with big bones, broad shoulders, and mighty muscles. At log
rollings and chopping bees, in the field or at the mill, or in any
of the games in which the backwoodsman tries his strength, no one
had ever successfully contested his place as the strongest man in
the hills. And still, throughout the country side, the old folks
tell with pride tales of the marvelous feats of strength performed
in the days when "Old Matt" was young.

Of the son, "Young Matt," the people called him, it is enough to
say that he seemed made of the same metal and cast in the same
mold as the father; a mighty frame, softened yet by young
manhood's grace; a powerful neck and well poised head with wavy
red-brown hair; and blue eyes that had in them the calm of summer
skies or the glint of battle steel. It was a countenance fearless
and frank, but gentle and kind, and the eyes were honest eyes.

Anyone meeting the pair, as they walked with the long swinging
stride of the mountaineer up the steep mill road that gray