“Do you see that bed hanging from yon window?”
“Yes! of course I see it!”
“It is a feather-bed!”
“Well—what of that? Why tell me this stuff? Of course I can guess as well as you that it's a feather-bed, since I see a flock of geese in the yard with their necks all bare.”
“Hark ye, then! There's something more than this, which you may yet see! Touch up your mare. If this fellow brings the mob at Ellisland upon us, that tar will be run, and that feather-bed gutted, for our benefit. What they took from the geese will be bestowed on us. Do you understand me? Did you ever hear of a man whose coat was made of tar and feathers, and furnished at the expense of the county?”
“Hush, for God's sake, Warham! you make my blood run cold with your hideous notions!”
“That fellow offered to frizzle your whiskers. These would anoint them with tar, in which your bear's oil would be of little use.”
“Ha! don't you hear a noise?” demanded the whiskered companion, looking behind him.
“I think I do,” replied the other musingly.
“A great noise!” continued Don Whiskerandos.