"Damn those Britishers!" said the parrot.
"I'll give you fifty dollars for that bird when you get him home, Cynthy," said the Skipper. "Did you teach him that?"
"I!" There was a world of wrath in Cynthia's tones. "He was probably taught by the Minion when he took the cage out to clean it."
Cynthia jumped excitedly to her feet.
"Oh! See there, Mr. Jones, they are firing on the flag! There goes a shot through it! I don't suppose they know we have left yet. The Yankee careened so."
It was true. Our emblem, which we had left floating at the masthead, had been shot directly through the field, and some of the stars were carried away with the ball. Cynthia wrung her hands.
"Uncle Antony," she screamed, if that sweet voice could ever have been said to do anything so vulgar, "let us go back! Don't you see? They have fired on the flag."
"Don't get flustered," said the Skipper to the stroke. "Steady and strong wins to-day. My niece's a little excitable."
Cynthia heard the words. She turned on me, her lips white with suppressed passion.
"You know what the trouble with the English is, don't you, Mr. Jones?"