“No!”
“Bad enough! Can I have something to eat myself,—a cup of coffee—?”
A rude burst of laughter stopped me, and the flannel man actually shook with the drollery of his own thoughts. “It bean't Astor House, I reckon!” said he, wiping his eyes.
“Not very like it, certainly,” said I, smiling.
“What o' that? Who says it ought to be like it?” said he, and his fishy eyes flared up, and his yellow cheeks grew orange with anger. “I an't very like old Hickory, I s'pose! and maybe I don't want to be! I'm a free Texan! I an't a nigger nor a blue-nose! I an't one of your old country slaves, that black King George's boots, and ask leave to pay his taxes! I an't.”
“And I,” said I, assuming an imitation of his tone, for experiment's sake, “I am no lazy, rocking-chair, whittling, tobacco-chewing Texan! but a traveller, able and willing to pay for his accommodation, and who will have it, too!”
“Will ye? Will ye, then?” cried he, springing up with an agility I could not have believed possible; while, rushing into the hut, he reappeared with a long Kentucky rifle, and a bayonet a-top of it. “Ye han't long to seek yer man, if ye want a flash of powder! Come out into the bush and 'see it out,' I say!”
The tone of this challenge was too insulting not to call for at least the semblance of acceptance; and so, fastening my mare to a huge staple beside the door, I unslung my rifle, and cried, “Come along, my friend; I'm quite ready for you!”
Nothing daunted at my apparent willingness, he threw back the hammer of his lock, and said, “Hark ye, young un! You can't give me a cap or two? Mine are considerable rusty!”
The request was rather singular, but its oddity was its success; and so, opening a small case in the stock of my rifle, I gave him some.