I signed to Whitestone to keep silent, and rode up close to the leader.
“We ought to understand each other,” I said, speaking in a confident and confidential tone.
“What do you mean?” he asked suspiciously.
I burst out laughing, as if I were enjoying the best joke in the world.
“I hate rebels,” I said, leaning over and tapping him familiarly on the shoulder with my finger.
“I don’t understand you,” he said.
“I mean that you hate rebels too,” I replied, “and that you are just as much of a rebel as I am.”
“Hi should think so! Hi could tell by the look hof their countenances that they are hof the right sort,” broke in Whitestone, dropping every h where it belonged and putting on every one where it did not belong.
It was Whitestone’s first and last appearance on any occasion as an Englishman, but it was most successful.