I burst out laughing, as if I were enjoying the best joke in the world. “I hate rebels,” I said, leaning over and tapping him familiarly on the shoulder with my finger. “I don’t understand you,” he said. “I mean that you hate rebels too,” I replied, “and that you are just as much of a rebel as I am.” “Hi should think so! Hi could tell by the look hof their countenances that they are hof the right sort,” broke in Whitestone, dropping every h where it belonged and putting on every one where it did not belong. It was Whitestone’s first and last appearance on any occasion as an Englishman, but it was most successful. A look of intelligence appeared on the faces of the two men. “Of Bayle’s regiment in Burgoyne’s army, both of us,” I said. “I thought it, back yonder in Albany,” said the leader, “but why did you fence us off so?” “One doesn’t always know his friends, first glance, especially in rebel towns,” I said. “Like you, I thought so, but I couldn’t take the risk and declare myself until I knew more about you.” “That’s true,” he acknowledged. “These rebels are so cursedly sly.” “Very, very sly,” I said, “but we’ve fooled ’em this time.” I pointed to their Continental coats and to ours. Then we laughed all together. “Tell me what really happened up there,” said the man. “It was a great battle,” I said, “but we drove them off the field, and we can take care of ourselves. Six thousand British and German veterans care little for all the raw militia this country can raise.” “That’s so,” he said. We laughed again, all together. “How is everything down there?” I asked, nodding my head toward the south. “Clinton’s coming with a strong fleet and five thousand men,” he replied. “What they say in the town is all true.” “Small thanks he will get from Burgoyne,” I said. “Our general will like it but little when Clinton comes to strip him of part of his glory.” “I suppose you are right,” he answered, “but I did not think Burgoyne was finding his way so easy. I understood that the first battle at Saratoga stopped him.” “Don’t you trouble yourself about Burgoyne,” I said. “If he stopped, he stopped for ample reasons.” Which was no lie. “But we must hasten,” I continued. “Our messages to Clinton will bear no delay.” “Luck with you,” they said. “Luck with you,” we replied, waving our hands in friendly salute as we rode away, still to the south. Whether they ever found out the truth I do not know, for I never saw or heard of either again. We continued our journey in silence for some time. Whitestone looked melancholy. “What is the matter?” I asked. “It was too easy,” he replied. “I always pity fools.” He lighted his pipe and sought consolation. CHAPTER XIII. WE MEET THE FLEET.