The note went into my pocket, the General, luckily involved with his pipe, which for some stubbornness concealed within the stem refused to draw, failing to notice. This was as should be, for the General was as inquisitive and prompt with query as a girl. Even now he asked where I was bound.
“I've had nothing to eat as yet,” I returned.
“That's true; I had forgotten. Come back when you are finished; there's a deal to talk about. I shall need you to help me make up my mind.”
“Help you unmake it, you mean,” I replied.
There was an exchange of grins. I had exactly stated the case; and, as a grave truth will on occasion, it struck our sense of the ridiculous. It had been my work for years; it would be my work for the eight years yet to come; this unmaking of the General's mind.
On my way to the card room I asked Jim,
Peggy
O'Neal who was close behind, where he got the message.
“Marse Major, Jim done obtains it from that red-head Jew gentleman I sees romancin' 'round yere this mornin'. An' say, Marse Major; don't you-all reckon Jim better skuffle for your room an' fotch your box of pistols?”
“Pistols!” I exclaimed, stopping short; “what in the name of General Jackson do I. want of pistols?”