"Perhaps not literally so, my dear father; but the minute-men of
Massachusetts, and His Majesty's forces, have met and fought. This I
know, full well; for my own regiment was in the field, and, I hope it
is unnecessary to add, that its second officer was not absent."

"Of course these minute-men--rabble would be the better word--could not
stand before you?" said the captain, compressing his lips, under a
strong impulse of military pride.

Major Willoughby coloured, and, to own the truth, at that moment he
wished the Rev. Mr. Woods, if not literally at the devil, at least safe
and sound in another room; anywhere, so it were out of ear-shot of the
answer.

"Why, sir," he said, hesitating, not to say stammering, notwithstanding
a prodigious effort to seem philosophical and calm--"To own the truth,
these minute-fellows are not quite as contemptible as we soldiers would
be apt to think. It was a stone-wall affair, and dodging work; and, so,
you know, sir, drilled troops wouldn't have the usual chance. They
pressed us pretty warmly on the retreat."

"_Retreat_! Major Willoughby!"

"I called it retreat, sure enough; but it was only a march _in_,
again, after having done the business on which we went out. I shall
admit, I say, sir, that we were hard pressed, until _reinforced_."

"_Reinforced_, my dear Bob! _Your_ regiment, _our_
regiment could not need a reinforcement against all the Yankees in New
England."