"O yes, sir. Ran straight away through the camp to his tent, where the flag were flyin, never bothered about no sentries nor nothin. Just as I trot up, a little bit of a butterfly lady like bob out o the tent, and when she see me—'Beau, boy!' she squeals. 'Beau, boy! ere's a niked man! Do come and see!' And she jig up and down and tiddle her fingers at me, please as Punch…. Out come ole Whiskers, sword and all. 'You something something!' says he, and knocks her back into the tent. Then he run at me, roarin."
The little man was sniggering.
"I see by his eyes he meant it all, so—
"'Here, sir,' says I, 'somethin for yourself!' and chucks the note in his mug."
The Parson was breathing deep.
"And what then?"
"Why, sir, I'd nothin on me ony the dooks me God give me. So I up and
I skip it."
The Parson leaned out, and smote at the man's shaven skull with the butt-end of his pistol.
"Ain't I done right, sir?" squeaked the little man, dodging back.
"You've sold us!" cursed the Parson, and he was white even in the moon.