"Mr. M'Fadden is
very, very welcome;" so says mine host, who would have him take a
social glass with his own dear self.
Mr. M'Fadden must be excused until he has seen the place in which to
deposit his preacher and other property.
"Ah, ha!"-mine host cants his ear, enquiringly;--"want grits for 'em,
I s'pose?" he returns, and his round fat face glows with
satisfaction. "Can suit you to a shavin'."
"That's right, Colonel; I know'd ye could," ejaculates the other.
Mine host is much elated at hearing his title appended. Colonel
Frank Jones-such is mine host's name--never fought but one duel, and
that was the time when, being a delegate to the southern blowing-up
convention, lately holden in the secession city of Charleston, he
entered his name on the register of the Charleston Hotel--"Colonel
Frank Jones, Esq., of the South Carolina Dragoons;" beneath which an
impertinent wag scrawled-"Corporal James Henry Williamson M'Donal
Cudgo, Esq. of the same regiment." Colonel Frank Jones, Esq. took
this very gross insult in the highest kind of dudgeon, and forthwith
challenged the impertinent wag to settle the matter as became
gentlemen. The duel, however, ended quite as harmlessly as the
blowing-up convention of which Mr. Colonel Frank Jones was a
delegate, the seconds-thoughtless wretches-having forgot to put
bullets in the weapons.
Our readers must excuse us for digressing a little. Mine host rubs
his hands, draws his mouth into a dozen different puckers, and then
cries out at the top of his voice, "Ho, boys, ho!"
Three or four half-clad negroes come scampering into the room, ready
to answer the summons.
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