"But we old folks must give place
to the young," he continued cheerfully; "it's nature, and it's human
nature, too."
"It will be a dull day when you give place to any one else, Major,"
returned the Governor, politely.
"And a far off one I trust," added Mrs. Ambler, with her plaintive smile.
"Well, maybe so," responded the Major, settling himself in an easy chair
beside the fire. "Any way, you can't blame an old man for fighting for his
own, as my friend Harry Smith put it when he lost his leg in the War of
1812. 'By God, it belongs to me,' he roared to the surgeon, 'and if it
comes off, I'll take it off myself, sir.' It took six men to hold him, and
when it was over all he said was, 'Well, gentlemen, you mustn't blame a man
for fighting for his own.' Ah, he was a sad scamp, was Harry, a sad scamp.
He used to say that he didn't know whether he preferred a battle or a
dinner, but he reckoned a battle was better for the blood. And to think
that he died in his bed at last like any Christian."
"That reminds me of Dick Wythe, who never needed any tonic but a fight,"
returned the Governor, thoughtfully. "You remember Dick, don't you,
Major?--a hard drinker, poor fellow, but handsome enough to have stepped
out of Homer. I've been sitting by him at the post-office on a spring day,
and seen him get up and slap a passer-by on the face as coolly as he'd take
his toddy. Of course the man would slap back again, and when it was over
Dick would make his politest bow, and say pleasantly, 'Thank you, sir, I
felt a touch of the gout.
Pages:
131
132
133
134
135
136
137
138
139
140
141
142
143
144
145
146
147
148
149
150
151
152
153
154
155