Neither he nor his men were absolutely
uncourteous, when they once recognized that I was not a Confederate spy,
or a professional blockade-runner; but they were exultant, of course,
and disposed to indulge in a rough jocularity, during the necessary
inspection of my person and baggage.
The surgeon was a coarse edition of Maurice Quill; when he had examined
my knee, and dressed it--not unskillfully--(the conical point of "the
Sharp's" bullet had just reached the bone), he took great interest in
the search of my saddle-bags; desiring to be informed of the precise
cost of each article. When I declined to satisfy him, he became
exceedingly witty--not to say sarcastic.
"Here's a mighty curious sort of a traveler, boys; as don't know what
nothing costs that belongs to him, nor how he come by it," &c.
Now I was getting tired, and bored with the whole business, and stifled
with the close atmosphere--laden with every graveolent horror; besides,
I had not escaped from London "chaff" and Parisian _persiflage_, to be
mocked by a wild Virginian. So I said, quite gravely:
"It's very simple; but I don't wonder it puzzles you. You have to pay,
when you buy, out here, I dare say, _I_ haven't paid for anything for
twenty years. But, if I had known I was going to meet _you_, before I
came away I would have--looked at the bills.
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