"He very good--major dere; he know. Nick dere--hot time--a t'ousand scalp--coat red as blood."
"There has been another battle!" exclaimed the captain; "that is too plain to admit of dispute. Speak out at once, Nick--which gained the day; the British or the Americans?"
"Hard to tell--one fight, t'other fight. Red-coat take de ground; Yankee kill. If Yankee could take scalp of all he kill, he whip. But, poor warriors at takin' scalp. No know how."
"Upon my word, Woods, there does seem to be something in all this! It can hardly be possible that the Americans would dare to attack Boston, defended as it is, by a strong army of British regulars."
"That would they not," cried the chaplain, with emphasis. "This has been only another skirmish."
"What you call skirmge?" asked Nick, pointedly. "It skirmge to take t'ousand scalp, ha?"
"Tell us what has happened, Tuscarora?" said the captain, motioning his friend to be silent.
"Soon tell--soon done. Yankee on hill; reg'lar in canoe. Hundred, t'ousand, fifty canoe--full of red-coat. Great chief, dere!--ten--six--two--all go togeder. Come ashore--parade, pale-face manner--march--booh--booh--dem cannon; pop, pop--dem gun. Wah! how he run!"
"Run!--who ran, Nick?--Though I suppose it must have been the poor Americans, of course."
"Red-coat run," answered the Indian, quietly.