A roguish twinkle gleamed in his eye when his customer had taken the oyster with a smack of his lips. Sven held out the other half of the shell and with his oyster knife pointing to the fine purplish coloring of the inside, said: “Das wass a he-oeystar, and ahl maan got some by me. Van maan eet plaanty he-oeystar and papper-saass he feel strang ahl daay. Das wass samting vat halps fadder and strangtans modder.” The Swede could have gone on about his oysters at any length as long as his customer would eat, but getting enough “he-oysters,” Barclugh handed him a sixpence and at the same time slipping a crown piece into his hand, asked: “Do you know General Arnold?” “Yah,” replied Sven, who looked startled and astonished as he grasped the coin, and squared himself up to tell _all_ that he knew. “I haf baan in dis kontry sax yahr and sax monts. My name is Sven Svenson, and my brodder’s garl varks for Mrs. Arnold. Ganral Arnold eats plaanty he-oeystar and owes me tan pound starling. Mrs. Arnold haf a strang tongue and talks to the Ganral to yump his yob and vark for dee Angleesh.” Barclugh smiled and left Sven still eager to tell more, showing unconcern by hastily departing, yet when walking briskly along he thought to himself: “The Swede loves money and his knowledge must be mine. Arnold can not long resist his wife and my offers too.” CHAPTER VIII After the dinner party at the FitzMaurice’s, the next morning was ominous with sullen clouds in the Arnold homestead. The servants were gliding from room to room in sober mien; conversations were carried on in whispers. The Madam was served with breakfast in her room, and the General had no appetite. The office of the Commandant of Philadelphia was streaked with strata of dark blue vitriolic language. The first caller was Sven Svenson, who approached the sentinel before the General’s office door. The two fell into conversation. “Haf Ganral Arnold been up?” asked Sven as he came near the sentinel, with his hat in his hand. “I reckon not, Sven, he was mighty weak-kneed when he came home last night,” was the sentinel’s reply. “Das varking maan haf to vark and vark for hees pay, and de Ganral eets and dreenks ahl day ant ahl night. Hee talks so hard at mee I haf to valk oudt ant svore I vas beat.” “How much does the General owe you now, Sven?” asked the sentinel in an undertone. “Tan pound starling for goot oeystar vat Mistrees Arnold vants for hair beeg koumpanee.” “Ha, ha! Sven, you are in luck it’s not more,” blurted out the honest-faced Virginian who was standing guard at the Commandant’s office. “This Connecticut apothecary and horse-trader has succeeded to a position where he can gratify his desires for extravagant living, but if he keeps on in his present course, he will ruin our cause; but he has a spouse who leads him a good race, Sven.”