“Now you are very much my dear,” said Jackson, half-emptying the brandy decanter into his glass and adding only a thimbleful of water. “Yes, your confidence in me wipes out the previous affront. 'Sblood, madam, shall it be said that Dick Jackson, whose name made the American rebels--curse 'em!--turn as green as their own coats--shall it be said that Dick Jackson, of whom the rebel Colonel--Washington his name is--George Washington”--he had considerable difficulty over the name--“is accustomed to say to this day, 'Give me a hundred men--not men, but lions, like that devil Dick Jackson, and I'll sweep his Majesty's forces into the Potomac'--shall it be said that--that--what the devil was I about to say--shall it be said?--never mind--here's to the health of Colonel Washington!” “Nay, sir, we cannot drink to one of the King's enemies,” said Mrs. Abington, rising. “'Twere scandalous, indeed, to do so in this place; and, sir, you still wear the King's uniform.” “The devil take the King's uniform!” shouted the man. “The devils of rebels are taking a good many coats of that uniform, and let me tell you, madam, that--nay, you must not leave the table until the toast is drank----” Mrs. Abington having risen, had walked across the room and seated herself on the chair over which Captain Jackson had flung his cloak. “Hold, sir,” cried Goldsmith, dropping his knife and fork with a clatter upon his plate that made the other man give a little jump. “Hold, sir, I perceive that you are on the side of freedom, and I would feel honoured by your permission to drink the toast that you propose. Here's success to the cause that will triumph in America.” Jackson, who was standing at the table with his glass in his hand, stared at him with the smile of a half-intoxicated man. He had just enough intelligence remaining to make him aware that there was something ambiguous in Goldsmith's toast. “It sounds all right,” he muttered as if he were trying to convince himself that his suspicions of ambiguity were groundless. “It sounds all right, and yet, strike me dizzy! if it wouldn't work both ways! Ha, my little poet,” he continued. “I'm glad to see that you are a man. Drink, sir--drink to the success of the cause in America.” Goldsmith got upon his feet and raised his glass--it contained only a light wine. “Success to it!” he cried, and he watched Captain Jackson drain his third tumbler of brandy.