“What’ll you have?” asked the General.
“Cocktail.”
“Mix one.”
Mr. Smith prepared the beverage, placed himself swiftly outside of it, elevated his feet until they rested close to those of the General, and said,—
“Well, how does the old thing work?”
“Oh, pretty well! tolerable! The Committee have promised to consider your case to-morrow, and I want you to be on hand, ready to tell your story. You’ve got it straight, I reckon?”
“Yes, I know it by heart.”
“Let’s see. Your theory is that you were scalped by a Pottawatomie Indian in 1862. Now, where is that scalp?”
“In my trunk. Between ourselves, you know, I bought it of an Indian in Laramie year before last.”
“Very well. Now, what is the name of the Indian who scalped you?”