"Yes. I march with the whole kerboodle. I tell you, it's fun."
It was "Presidential year," and Amy began to understand, not only that the lad before her was a "natural," but, presumably, that he had been made the victim of village wit. She had heard of the "marching bands," and inferred that the strange dress of her rescuer was made up by fragments from rival political uniforms.
"Yes. I'm out every night. Hurrah for Clevey-Harris!"
"You must get very tired."
"No. It's fun. I drag the gun carriage. That's on account o' my strength. Look a' there for an arm!" And he thrust out his illy proportioned limb with a pitiable pride.
"I see. But now that you've helped me down the bank, will you as kindly show me the way home?"
"Never slid that way before, did you? Only thing, though. I'll show you all right if you'll let me ride your donkey. Funny, ain't she? Make her talk."
"I think she's very pretty; and you may ride her, certainly, if she will let you."
A puzzled and angry expression came over the youth's face as he looked toward the burro, who had already begun to make hay for herself out of the lush grasses bordering the Ardsley.
"Make her talk, I say."