“A hatchet is a kind of sword, is it not?”
“Oh, no, no,—it is a chopper; we cut up wood and meat and anything with it. You’ve heard that story surely.”
“Possibly, sir,” said Eugene indifferently. “I do not remember that I have.”
“Well, I’m dumb,” said the sergeant. “I didn’t think there was a child in the length and breadth of America that hadn’t heard about that hatchet. Can you tell a lie, then, as you don’t know about George Washington?”
“In general,” said Eugene, in his grave, old-fashioned way, “I do not tell lies. At times, if I consider one better than the truth, I tell it without scruple.”
“You don’t think it’s wrong to lie?”
“No, sir; truth is often tiresome; there is tedium in it, my grandfather says. The great emperor lied.”
“I’ll bet anything on that,” said the sergeant grimly, “and he didn’t get any good by it either, nor will you, my boy; but of that more anon, as Shakespeare says. I’ll have to talk to you some time about those two gentlemen, as you call them, that you don’t know about. Would you like me to do so?”
“Yes, sir; I should be charmed.”
“I’ll back up Washington and Lincoln against all the emperors that ever lived,” said the sergeant. “There, now, don’t get huffy.”