“It’s more they are thinking of themselves, then, than other people thinks of them,” cried Betty. “A t’ief’s a t’ief, anyway; whether he stales for King George or for Congress.”
“I know’d that evil would soon happen,” said Katy. “The sun set to-night behind a black cloud, and the house dog whined, although I gave him his supper with my own hands; besides, it’s not a week sin’ I dreamed the dream about the thousand lighted candles, and the cakes burnt in the oven.”
“Well,” said Betty, “it’s but little I drame, anyway. Jist keep an ’asy conscience and a plenty of the stuff in ye, and ye’ll sleep like an infant. The last drame I had was when the boys put the thistle tops in the blankets, and then I was thinking that Captain Jack’s man was currying me down, for the matter of Roanoke, but it’s no trifle I mind either in skin or stomach.”
“I’m sure,” said Katy, with a stiff erectness that drew Lawton back in his saddle, “no man shall ever dare to lay hands on bed of mine; it’s undecent and despisable conduct.”
“Pooh! pooh!” cried Betty; “if you tag after a troop of horse, a small bit of a joke must be borne. What would become of the states and liberty, if the boys had never a clane shirt, or a drop to comfort them? Ask Captain Jack, there, if they’d fight, Mrs. Beelzeboob, and they no clane linen to keep the victory in.”
“I’m a single woman, and my name is Haynes,” said Katy, “and I’d thank you to use no disparaging terms when speaking to me.”
“You must tolerate a little license in the tongue of Mrs. Flanagan, madam,” said the trooper. “The drop she speaks of is often of an extraordinary size, and then she has acquired the freedom of a soldier’s manner.”
“Pooh! captain, darling,” cried Betty, “why do you bother the woman? Talk like yeerself, dear, and it’s no fool of a tongue that ye’ve got in yeer own head. But jist here-away that sargeant made a halt, thinking there might be more divils than one stirring, the night. The clouds are as black as Arnold’s heart, and deuce the star is there twinkling among them. Well, the mare is used to a march after nightfall, and is smelling out the road like a pointer slut.”
“It wants but little to the rising moon,” observed the trooper. He called a dragoon, who was riding in advance, issued a few orders and cautions relative to the comfort and safety of Singleton, and speaking a consoling word to his friend himself, gave Roanoke the spur, and dashed by the car, at a rate that again put to flight all the philosophy of Katharine Haynes.
“Good luck to ye, for a free rider and a bold!” shouted the washerwoman, as he passed. “If ye’re meeting Mister Beelzeboob, jist back the baste up to him, and show him his consort that ye’ve got on the crupper. I’m thinking it’s no long he’d tarry to chat. Well, well, it’s his life that we saved, he was saying so himself—though the plunder is nothing to signify.”