"
Mr. M'Fadden seemed not to comprehend the nature of his physician's
language, and after a few minutes pause he must needs enquire about
the weather? if a coroner's inquest has been held over the dead men?
what was its decision? was there any decision at all? and have they
been buried? Satisfied on all these points, he gets up, himself
again, complaining only of a little muddled giddiness about the
head, and a hip so sore that he scarcely could reconcile his mind to
place confidence in it.
"Good by! good by!" says the physician, shaking him by the hand.
"Measure the stimulant carefully; and take good care of dumplin
dep“t No. 1, and you'll be all right very soon. You're a good
democrat, and you'll make as good a stump orator as ever took the
field."
The man of medicine, laughing heartily within himself, descends the
stairs and reaches the bar-room, where are concentrated sundry of
the party we have before described. They make anxious enquiries
about Mr. M'Fadden,--how he seemed to "take it;" did he evince want
of pluck? had he courage enough to fight a duel? and could his vote
be taken afore he died? These, and many other questions of a like
nature, were put to the physician so fast, and with so many
invitations to drink "somethin'," that he gave a sweeping answer by
saying Mac had been more frightened than hurt; that the fear of
death having passed from before his eyes his mind had now centered
on the loss of his nigger preacher-a valuable piece of property that
had cost him no less than fifteen hundred dollars.
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