“What is it?” asked Albert with eager interest.
“That we have met many graceful and accomplished liars in our time, but of them all you are the most graceful and accomplished,” I said with grave politeness, my tongue lingering over the long words.
Albert uttered something which sounded painfully and amazingly like an oath, and sprang to his feet, his face flushing red with anger or shame, I am uncertain which.
He raised his hand as if he would strike me, but I moved around a little, and the light in its turn fell on my face. He uttered another cry, and this time there was no doubt about its being an oath. He looked at me, his face growing redder and redder.
“Dick,” he said in a tone of deep reproach, “I call this devilish unkind.”
“The unkindness is all on your side, Albert,” I retorted. “You have given me more trouble in this campaign than all the rest of Burgoyne’s army—if that fellow Chudleigh be counted out—and here I have you on my hands again.”
“Who asked you to come into my tent?” said Albert angrily. “I heard you outside a while ago, but I did not think you would come in.”
“That was when your feet bobbed up,” I said. “You must retain more control over them, Albert. Now that I think of it, and trace things to their remote causes, that movement first stirred in me the curiosity to see your face, and not your feet only. Have them amputated, Albert.”
“What do you mean to do?” he asked with an air of resignation.