He made no reply, but drew a deep breath at his pipe stem, and then let the smoke escape in a long white curl. Some of the sharpshooters stepped from covert and looked curiously at the approaching officer. “Whitestone,” I said, “since there is no committee of reception, let us make ourselves one.” He took his pipe from his mouth and followed me. The murmur of the camps, the sound made by the voices of many men, increased. The officer came rapidly. Whitestone and I walked very slowly. He saw us, and, noting my subaltern’s uniform, took me for one dispatched to meet him. When he came very near I saw that his face was frozen into the haughty expression of a man who wishes to conceal mortification. He said at once that he wished to see our commander in chief, and without question Whitestone and I took him to our colonel, who formed his escort to the tent of our commander in chief. Then we returned to our former place near the outposts. “How long do you think it will take to arrange it?” I asked Whitestone. “A day or two, at least,” he said. “The British will talk with as long a tongue as they can, hoping that Clinton may come yet, and, even if he don’t, there will be many things to settle.” Whitestone was right, as he so often was. The generals soon met to talk, and we subalterns and soldiers relaxed. The rifles were put to rest, and I learned how little we hate our enemies sometimes. I saw one of our sentinels giving tobacco to a British sentinel, and they were swapping news over a log. Some officers sent in medicines for the wounded. No longer having fear of bullets, I walked up to the British outworks and looked over them into the camp. A Hessian sentinel shook his gun at me and growled something in his throaty tongue. I laughed at him, and he put his gun back on his shoulder. I strolled on, and some one hailed me with a familiar voice. It was Albert Van Auken. “Hello, Dick!” said he. “Have you folks surrendered yet? How long are these preliminaries to last?” He was looking quite fresh and gay, and, if the truth be told, I was glad to see him. “No,” I replied, “we have not surrendered yet, and we may change our minds about it.” “That would be too bad,” he replied, “after all our trouble--after defeating you in battle, and then hemming you in so thoroughly as we have done.” “So it would,” I said. “Sit down and talk seriously. Are your mother and sister well?” “Well enough,” he replied, “though badly frightened by your impertinent cannon balls.” He sat down on a mound of earth thrown up by British spades, and I came quite close to him. Nobody paid any attention to us. “How goes it with Captain Chudleigh?” I asked. “Poor Chudleigh!” said Albert. “He’s lying in the cellar over there, with a ball through his shoulder sent by one of your infernal sharpshooters.” “Is it bad?” I asked. “Yes, very,” he replied. “He may live, or he may die. Kate’s nursing him.”