“And frequently he is much better,” rejoined his mistress. “But, Harvey, who is this Mr. Sumter?”
A slight indication of humor showed itself on the face of the peddler, but it disappeared, and he continued as if the discourse had met with no interruption from the sensitiveness of the domestic.
“As I was saying, he lives among the colored people in the south”—Caesar resumed his occupation—“and he has lately had a scrimmage with this Colonel Tarleton—”
“Who defeated him, of course?” cried Sarah, with confidence.
“So say the troops at Morrisania.”
“But what do you say?” Mr. Wharton ventured to inquire, yet speaking in a low tone.
“I repeat but what I hear,” said Birch, offering a piece of cloth to the inspection of Sarah, who rejected it in silence, evidently determined to hear more before she made another purchase.
“They say, however, at the Plains,” the peddler continued, first throwing his eyes again around the room, and letting them rest for an instant on Harper, “that Sumter and one or two more were all that were hurt, and that the rig’lars were all cut to pieces, for the militia were fixed snugly in a log barn.”
“Not very probable,” said Sarah, contemptuously, “though I make no doubt the rebels got behind the logs.”
“I think,” said the peddler coolly, again offering the silk, “it’s quite ingenious to get a log between one and a gun, instead of getting between a gun and a log.”