“Das varking maan haf to vark and vark for hees pay, and de Ganral eets and dreenks ahl day ant ahl night. Hee talks so hard at mee I haf to valk oudt ant svore I vas beat.”
“How much does the General owe you now, Sven?” asked the sentinel in an undertone.
“Tan pound starling for goot oeystar vat Mistrees Arnold vants for hair beeg koumpanee.”
“Ha, ha! Sven, you are in luck it’s not more,” blurted out the honest-faced Virginian who was standing guard at the Commandant’s office. “This Connecticut apothecary and horse-trader has succeeded to a position where he can gratify his desires for extravagant living, but if he keeps on in his present course, he will ruin our cause; but he has a spouse who leads him a good race, Sven.”
“Yah, Mistrees Arnold vent to ahl dee baals and deenirs vid Major Andre and dee Angleesh offeecirs as vas here een Pheeladalpheeia laast veentir,” said the Swede.
“Hush, hush, Sven, here comes the General,” whispered the sentinel, as he came to attention and saluted General Arnold who passed to his small office building next his residence.
Arnold did not look at Sven, but a scowl came over his brow as he passed into the little office room, slamming the door behind him.
Sven then approached the door very cautiously and rapped. An imperious voice inside roared:
“Come in.”
The first greeting Sven got was: