“Well,” Garwood would reply, “I don’t know yet whether I’ll go on at large or not. It’ll all depend on the situation when we get down to Springfield. Unless the boys feel that I could do more good somewhere else, I’ll go on. Anyway, I’ll go from the district.”
“Well, you’ll be theah, I’m suah, suh. Boy—make us anothah of those mint juleps. And, boy!—if you will allow me, suh——” the colonel bowed in his courtly old-school way to Garwood—“don’t mash the mint this time, just pinch the sprigs, oah twis’ them, so as to avoid the bittah flavah you othahwise impaht to yoah concoction. I find it ve’y difficult, Colonel,” the old gentleman continued, turning to Garwood, “to get a julep made prope’ly out of Kentucky.”
It pleased Garwood to be addressed as colonel, as it pleases any man, and he was conscious of a momentary regret that he had not induced Colonel Warfield to ask the governor of Illinois to appoint him as an aide-de-camp on his staff, so that the title might be his. He resolved to have that done if—but his mind darkened at the prospect of all he must suffer and endure before his political fortunes could again be considered secure. Another campaign with all its uncertainty lay before him, and there was no Rankin any more to lean on. He preferred to close his eyes to the future, and to live to the full the happy moments that flew by so swiftly.
The colonel had insisted on their seating themselves at one of the two or three small tables in the little bar-room, so that he might sip his julep in the lazy deliberation so dear to his Southern nature, and as they sat there, other members dropped in, and were invited by the colonel with a hospitable wave of his white hand to join them.
They were all glad to do so, for Colonel Bird represented one of those Kentucky districts dear to the congressional heart, which not only afforded a romantic background for his own picturesque figure, but possessed a higher attribute in this, that it always returned the colonel to Washington without contest or question. He was never troubled about renomination or reëlection. He had been speaking of that district for years—ever since he had accepted the benefits of the amnesty proclamation, which he affected to despise—with a calm proprietary air that filled the souls of the men gathered about him in the afternoon of this warm spring day, with a longing far above all the other longings of spring.
The colonel had laid off his planter’s hat, and with his paunch pressed against the table, sat and tinkled the ice in his tall glass as if he loved its cool music, and awaited the serving of the others whom he had invited to become of his party. He sat erectly, as his paunch forced him to do, and now and then, in a way that added to his dignity, stroked the mustaches and imperial that were white as cotton against his red face. But his relief was apparent when at last the bartender brought the fragrant glasses with their cool crystal reflecting the green of the little sprigs of mint, and then he bowed, as well as he could, and formally awaited the pleasure of his guests.
“How!” said Ladd, of Colorado, in the big western voice that so heartily expressed the amenity that all felt due the occasion.
“Suhs,” replied the colonel, “yoah ve’y good health.”
The colonel took a long pull at the straw, and then straightening himself, sat, warm and red and pompous, the glossy bosom of his shirt arching itself to meet his imperial as though it would do its best to replace the starched frills that his antebellum personality lacked.
“Well, Colonel, whom are you Democrats going to nominate?” asked Van Beek, of New York.