He took his pipe from his mouth and tapped the bowl of it significantly with the index finger of his left hand.
“I can smoke that pipe, can’t I?” he asked.
“I should think so!”
“So could you if you had a chance, couldn’t you?”
“Certainly.”
“Those men who ran away could fire a cannon; so could——”
“Do you mean it, Whitestone?” I asked, the blood flying to my head at the thought.
“Mean it? I should think I did,” he replied. “I used to be in the artillery, and I can handle a cannon pretty well. So can you, I think. Here are the cannon, there’s ammunition a-plenty, and over us flies the brand-new flag. What more do you want?”
He replaced his pipe in his mouth, sat down on the breech of a gun, and gave himself up to content. I looked at him in admiration. I approve of so many of Whitestone’s ideas, and I liked few better than this. I was young.