“And now,” said the captain, “let me hear, Mr. Wynne, what you have to say. Take a pull at my flask.”
I did so, and went on to relate my adventures briefly—the duck-shooting, which much amused him, the escape at the forge, and what else seemed to be needed to set myself right. He looked me over again keenly.
“You had a close thing of it.”
“Yes,” said I; “you are a terrible swordsman, and a good one, if you will pardon me.”
“I meant to cut him on the head, but he put his neck where his head should have been. There is one rascal the less; but I missed the leader. Hang him!”
“He will take care of that,” said I.
Then my companion said I must join his troop, and would I excuse his rough dealing with me?
I declared myself well content, and explained as to his offer that I was much obliged, and would think it over; but that I desired first to see the army, and to find my friend, Captain Warder, of the Pennsylvania line.
“Yes; a stout man and dark?”
“No; slight, well built, a blond.”