This, as he drew near, he discovered to be a portion of an old flour sack, washed clean and left bleaching in the sun and wind until it had assumed a colour a shade more pure than its original dinginess.
Battersleigh made dramatic approach.

"There!" said he, pointing with triumphant dignity to the fluttering rag.
"Yes, I see," said Franklin, "but what do you want of this piece of sack ?" "Sack!" cried Battersleigh, offended.

"'Sack!' say you, but I say, 'White!' Look ye, the history of a man is something sacred.

'Sack!' say you, but I say, 'White!' A strip of this at me neck and at me wrist; me hat, an' me sabre and me ridin' whip--I r-ride up to the dure.

I dismount.