“Let’s see,” said Zeb, “Bunster and I and Rodney are off duty to-night.”
“Yah, and I tink I zum sleep get.”
“One of those Hesse-Cassel ruffians swaps even for one good American, and there’s a lot of our boys rottin’ in the prison hulks in New York harbour to-night.”
“Which is one way of saying we should capture a few Hessians for a pastime; hey, Do-as-much Bunster?” and Rodney thrust a forefinger into Bunster’s fat ribs. The Dutchman squealed and leaped to his 213 feet, for he was so ticklish that one, wishing to see him squirm, only had to point a finger at him.
“That farmer is certain sure a good one, though he is too lazy to take his pigs in out of danger. I hate to see him lose ’em. Besides he has a big rick o’ hay right nigh that pig pen an’ it looked like a good place to sleep. What d’ye say, boys, if we tote ourselves down thar this evenin’?”
“Zum place to sleep, yah?”
“I’m not sleepy yet, but I am ready to go,” replied Rodney, so they set out.
They crossed the fields, some of which were new mown and fragrant. The sun was setting after a hot day. The swallows skimmed over the field.
“Swallers flyin’ low, sign o’ rain,” said Zeb.
“Needn’t lay it on the swallows when the clouds are piling up as they are this evening. We’ll want a roof to the hay rick before morning, I think,” was Rodney’s reply.