“Keep your eyes on that fellow with the scurvy pony yonder, and if you notice any thing suspicious in his movements, arrest him. It appears to me I have seen him in almost too many places to-day.”
An expression of concern passed over Sabrey's countenance, as she heard these words, and she gave an involuntary glance to the object thus pointed out, who, as she thought from his appearance, had also heard the order himself, or at least guessed its import. But instead of making off, as she expected, he spurred up his pony, and, coming directly up to the officer, asked him, with an air of confiding simplicity, to buy some of his apples, which he said were “eny most ripe, and grand for pies.”
“Who are you, fellow?” said the officer, without heeding the other's request.
“Who I be? I am Jo Wilkins. But aint you going to buy some of the apples?” persisted the former.
“Blast your apples!” impatiently replied the officer; “that is not what I want of you. Where do you live?”
“Up in the edge of Arlington, when I'm tu hum—next house to uncle Jake's great burnt piece there, you know,” answered the other; “but these ap——”
“Whom are you for? King or Congress?” interrupted the officer.
“Who be Congus? I don't know him,” said the former, with a doubtful stare.
“Well, then, whom do you fight for?” resumed the somewhat mollified officer.
“Don't fight for nobody tu our house,—cause dad's a Quaker—but then if you'd buy—”