And the worst of
it was, that the nigger had aggravatingly prayed for him when he
thought he was going to sink out into the arms of father death.
So pressing were the invitations to drink, that our man of medicine
advanced to the counter, like a true gentleman of the south, and
with his glass filled with an aristocratic mixture, made one of his
politest bows, toasted the health of all free citizens, adding his
hope for the success of the favourite candidate.
"Drink it with three cheers, standin'!" shouted a formidably
mustached figure, leaning against the counter with his left hand,
while his right was grasping the jug from which he was attempting in
vain to water his whiskey. To this the physic gentleman bows assent;
and they are given to the very echo. Taking his departure for the
city, as the sounds of cheering die away, he emerged from the front
door, as Mr. M'Fadden, unexpectedly as a ghost rising from the tomb,
made his entrance from the old staircase in the back. The
citizens-for of such is our assembly composed-are astonished and
perplexed. "Such a set of scapegoats as you are!" grumbles out the
debutant, as he stands before them like a disentombed spectre. With
open arms they approach him, congratulate him on his recovery, and
shower upon him many good wishes, and long and strong drinks.
A few drinks more, and our hero is quite satisfied with his welcome.
His desire being intimated, mine host conducts himself to the
corn-shed, where he satisfies himself that his faithful property
(the preacher excepted) is all snugly safe.
Pages:
479
480
481
482
483
484
485
486
487
488
489
490
491
492
493
494
495
496
497
498
499
500
501
502
503