“The same to you,” said O’Halloran.
The Irishman, using his foot as a broom, cleared the dead leaves and twigs from a little space of ground, where he deposited his bundle, and Kilpatrick did the same. John Fambrough, the wounded Confederate, went forward to greet his father and sister, and Lieutenant Clopton went with him. The Squire was not in a good humor.
“I tell you what, John,” he said to his son, “I don’t like to be harborin’ nary side. It’s agin’ my principles. I don’t like this colloguin’ an’ palaverin’ betwixt folks that ought to be by good 79 rights a-knockin’ one another on the head. If they want to collogue an’ palaver, why don’t they go som’ers else?”
The Squire’s son tried to explain, but the old gentleman hooted at the explanation. “Come on, Jule, let’s go and see what they’re up to.”
As they approached, the Irishman glanced at Captain Somerville, and saw that he had turned away, cap in hand, to hide his emotion.
“You’re just in time,” the Irishman said to Squire Fambrough in a bantering tone, “to watch the continding armies. This mite of a Johnny will swindle the Government, if I don’t kape me eye on him.”
“Is this what you call war?” the Squire inquired sarcastically. “Who axed you to come trespassin’ on my land?”
“Oh, we’ll put the leaves back where we found them,” said Kilpatrick, “if we have to git a furlough.”