Orme that we should be glad to entertain him at Cowles'
Farms. He was just beginning to thank me for this when we were suddenly
interrupted.
We were sitting some paces from the room where landlord Sanderson kept
his bar, so that we heard only occasionally the sound of loud talk which
came through the windows. But now came footsteps and confused words in
voices, one of which I seemed to know. There staggered through the door
a friend of mine, Harry Singleton, a young planter of our neighborhood,
who had not taken my father's advice, but continued to divide his favor
between farming, hunting and drinking. He stood there leaning against
the wall, his face more flushed than one likes to see a friend's face
before midday.
"Hullo, ol' fel," he croaked at me. "Hurrah for C'fedrate States of
America!"
"Very well," I said to him, "suppose we do hurrah for the Confederate
States of America. But let us wait until there is such a thing."
He glowered at me. "Also," he said, solemnly, "Hurrah for Miss Grace
Sheraton, the pretties' girl in whole C'federate States America!"
"Harry," I cried, "stop! You're drunk, man. Come on, I'll take you
home."
He waved at me an uncertain hand.
Pages:
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
34
35