“That’s right good old stuff,” said he, smacking his lips, as he returned the bottle.
“Yes; this is the cordial our Whig neighbor had stored away in his cellar,” said the Tory, chuckling.
“Ha! ha! ha!” roared Putney; “he wor a clever old chap to keep it for yer, chief.”
“Very accommodating indeed, I should say, for it was just what my larder was sadly deficient in at the time,” and he indulged in another suppressed laugh. “But come, tell me what news you bring, Hank, for I am getting impatient.”
“Wal, it’s all right!” exclaimed the scout, bringing his fist down on the palm of his hand. “He’s to be hanged to-morrow!”
“What! have they convicted him then, of being Iron Hand, and a British spy?”
“Yes.”
“Capital! Give me your hand, worthy friend; you have done me inestimable service,” and the Tory chieftain seized the hand of his companion, with apparent cordiality.
“Yer writin’, chief, and my swearin’, are goin’ to stretch his windpipe to-morrow mornin’,” continued Putney, with a swaggering air.
“Ha! ha! ha! Well, that is a good joke, and well played, Hank.”