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"De redcoats, de British sojuhs, suh; dey 'se fohty boat-loads ob 'em; dey'se come off fum de lil' sloop out in de ribah, and dey 'se gwine kill we all, and bu'n de house down. Dey done shot Mars' Blodgett, and dey'se coming heah special to get you, suh, Mars' Kunnel, kase I heahd dem say, when I was lyin' down on de wha'f, dat de man dey wanted was dat Kunnel Wilton."
He looked at David out of a sly and shifty eye. He had only one. The other had been gouged out years ago in a drunken fracas. "You couldn't get Chiquito for a hundred dollars. Not for sale," the owner of the horse said, a little stiffly. Miller's fat paunch shook with laughter. "I reckon not at that price. I'd give all of fohty for him." "Different here," replied Doble.
There was a long silence. "De jedge am bin a class-leader fohty year," said at last old Primus the barber in the background, shaking his woolly poll. Nobody answered. The squire noiselessly laid down the dice and shut the backgammon-board. Major Fetridge rose with a groan: "I'll go over and get a glass of somethin'. Won't some gentleman join me?" Nobody joined him.
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