This was a bit impertinent and ungenerous, I will admit, but I had drunk four glasses of wine and they were nagging me. They filled up the glasses again, and most of them drank, but I only sipped mine, meanwhile strengthening my rule over Dick Shelby’s mutinous head. The officer laughed easily at my reply and began to talk about the chances of the next battle, which he was sure the British would win. He said Burgoyne had six thousand men, English and Hessians, and in quite a careless way he asked how many we had.
By this time I had Dick Shelby’s unruly head under complete control, and his question, lightly put as it was, revealed their whole plan. Right then and there I felt a most painful regret that I had not given Albert Van Auken the worst beating of his life when I had the chance.
I replied that I could not say exactly how many men we had, but the number was somewhere between a thousand and a million, and at any rate sufficient for the purpose. He laughed gently as if he were willing to tolerate me, and continued to put questions in manner sly and most insidious. I returned answers vague or downright false, and I could see that the officer was becoming vexed at his want of success. Albert himself filled up my glass and urged me to drink again.
“You know, Dick, you don’t get good wine often,” he said, “and this may be your last chance.”
Had not I been a guest I would have created, right then and there, a second opportunity for giving Albert the worst beating of his life. I pretended to drink, though I merely sipped the fumes. The elderly officer changed his tactics a little.
“Do you think your generals are well informed about us?” he asked.
“Oh, yes,” I replied.
“How?”
“We learn from prisoners,” I said, “and then, perhaps, we ask sly questions from Englishmen who come to us under flags of truce.”
“What do you mean?” he asked, his face—and I was glad to see it—reddening.