Whitestone’s face was puffed out in the manner of one who has news to tell, and I was quite willing that he should gratify himself by telling it to me.
“What is it, Whitestone?” I asked. “Has the British army surrendered while I slept?”
“No,” said Whitestone, “and it may not surrender after all.”
“What!” I exclaimed.
“It’s just as I say,” said Whitestone, lighting the inevitable pipe. “It may not surrender after all.”
“What has happened?”
Whitestone’s cheeks continued to swell with a sense of importance.
“Clinton’s advancing with seven thousand men,” he said.
“That’s nothing,” I said. “Clinton’s been advancing for weeks, and he never gets near us.”
“But he is near us this time, sure enough,” said the sergeant very seriously.