“No, sir; we have to go through Georgy first.”
Till now I had been quite unaware of what I may call the interstate character of our day’s ride.
“Indeed! And how soon shall we get into Georgia?”
“When we cross the Chattoogy River.”
“The Chattooga? What is that? A branch of the Savannah?”
“Yes, sir.”
“How do you spell it?”
“I do not know, sir.”
My driver had certain verbal niceties of his own; he never said “don’t.” As for his inability to spell “Chattooga,” or “Chatuga,” he was little to be blamed for that. The atlas-makers are no better off.
By and by we forded a sizeable stream.