“Oh no, uncle,” cried the boy, with a forced laugh. “I couldn’t see anything.”
“Ha, ha!” ejaculated Uncle Paul. “Now, look here, Pickle; you and I have always had a sort of tacit agreement that we’d play fair together, and that there should be a mutual confidence.”
“Yes, uncle, of course,” cried the boy, whose face was burning.
“Very well, then, you are breaking truce. You are not playing the game, sir.”
“Uncle!”
“Pickle! Now then, sir, out with it. You have seen those French prisoners.”
“Uncle!”
“Yes, sir. Why did you pinch my arm—twice? Now then, honour!”
“I—I— You were talking about Bonaparte.”
“Well, what of that?”