"Get out of the way, boy, and let us pass."

"I can't move out, sir. I am on the edge of the road now, and I might go over into the ditch."

"Nonsense! Steer your oxteam to one side, and be quick about it, or I'll give you one over the back with my sword." And as the British underofficer spoke, he drew the blade in question and shook it suggestively at the youth addressed, who sat astride of one of the oxen he was driving, attached to a load of corn fodder.

The eyes of the boy flashed angrily. He was an American, born and bred, and had no love for these soldiers who were parading around Boston and vicinity, making the peacefully inclined inhabitants obey the obnoxious laws of King George III. The fact that there were six redcoats in the detachment he had met did not daunt him.

"I have a right to half the roadway," he said, quietly but firmly. "There is plenty of room for you to pass."

"Ha! Don't talk back to me!" came in a harsher tone than before. "Steer out your team instantly!"

"I can't do it, sir."

The words were not spoken with any great amount of defiance, yet they threw the underofficer, who was in a bad humor generally, into a rage. He leaped forward, and up went the heavy sword, to fall with a resounding whack upon the youth's back, a cruel and uncalled-for attack which all but sent the lad to the ground.

A coarse laugh went up from the remaining soldiers, each of whom was armed with a shining flintlock musket and bayonet. They were boon companions, and on a little expedition like this did not look upon the underofficer in the light of a superior.

"That's the way to serve him, Sergeant Kegan!" cried one. "Give him a taste of the King's discipline!"

"We'll show these rebels they must obey," put in another.

"You are right, we will, men. By my sword, but what are we coming to when even the youngsters won't obey us!"

And the sergeant drew himself up to his full height, for, being an officer in the King's command, and out on a special mission, he deemed himself of considerable importance.

The scene of the encounter was on the road leading from Lexington to Concord. It was about the middle of April, 1775, and at that season of the year the highway in certain spots was well-nigh impassable. The boy with the oxteam and the detachment of British soldiery had met where there was a sharp turn and a ditch, and the lad knew only too well that if he attempted to do as ordered, he would wreck his farm wagon and scatter his load of corn fodder in the mud.

He had given the men their full half of the road, and, as they were on foot, they could readily have passed him had they moved along in single file. Any officer who was a gentlemen would have commanded his men to do this, but Sergeant Kegan, who had obtained his position more by luck than by worthiness, was the exact opposite of a gentleman, hence the scene described above.

The youth who had been attacked was lightly attired in homespun, and the blow from the sword hurt him not a little, while it deprived him for several seconds of his wind. A clutch at the ox yoke saved him from falling, and there he hung, while the soldiers passed the remarks recorded.

"I take it you will get out of the way, now," went on Sergeant Kegan, in fully as harsh a tone as before.

"You-you brute!" gasped the lad, as soon as he could speak. "If you were not a British officer, I would-would-"

"Silence! Move now, or take the consequences!"

The face of the youth grew pale, but his voice did not falter, and he looked his persecutor squarely in the eyes.

"I have moved to one side as far as I can in safety. I can do no more, sir."

"You-you whipper snapper! How dare you speak to a King's officer in this fashion? I'll teach you a lesson in manners. Take that! And that! And-oh!"

Twice had the sword been raised and twice had it fallen on the youth's shoulder. Now, as it was uplifted a third time, the boy dodged and the weapon hit the nearest ox. With a bellow, the beast turned and knocked the underofficer flat on his back.

"Hi! Hi! Stop the creature! Secure that boy! He made the ox attack me!" cried the sergeant, as he scrambled to his feet. "The young rascal shall be hung for this!"

Alarmed at the attack on their superior, the remaining redcoats rushed forward. One stopped the oxteam, while the others turned their attention to the boy. In a twinkle the lad was hauled to the ground and surrounded. He struggled to escape, but he was no match for the men, and with one clasping him around the chest from behind and two others at either side of him, he speedily found himself a prisoner.

This accomplished, the soldiers turned to their officer. He had received a deep scratch on the neck from the horn of the ox, and standing on the sword, which had fallen beneath him, the officer bound it up with his handkerchief.

"Here is your sword, sir," said one of the men, and wiping the mud from the blade, he passed it to his superior.

"Is he-have you the young villain tight?"

"Oh, yes, we've got him tight enough," sang out two of the soldiers who held the boy.

"That's good-don't let him escape." The sergeant turned to the prisoner who was panting deeply from his efforts to escape. "You whelp, do you know what you have done?"

"I've treated a brute as he deserved," was the somewhat reckless reply.

"You have attacked an officer of his most gracious Majesty King George, and you are liable to be hung for it!"

"I merely defended myself, sir. Everyone has a right to do that." . . .