“I shall not sit at table with a traitor,” cried Onslow.
“Then keep standing all the time,” said Kenrick.
“Nonsense! I thought we were all philosophers in this company,” interposed Robson, who, having had large commercial dealings with the elder Kenrick, was in no mood to see the son harmed. “Sit down, Onslow! Wigman, keep your seat. Now, waiter, green glasses all round, and a bottle of that sparkling Moselle. They’ll know at the bar what I mean.”
Onslow resumed his seat. Wigman stiffened himself up and drew nearer to the table, fired at the prospect of a fresh bottle.
At this juncture Mr. George Sanderson, a Northern man with Southern principles, in person short, vulgar, and flashily dressed, the very beau ideal of a bar-room rowdy, having heard the clink of glasses, and sighted from the corridor an array of bottles, was seized with one of his half-hourly attacks of thirstiness, and entered to join the party, although Wigman was the only one he knew. The latter introduced him to the rest. Robson uncorked the Moselle, and asked, “Now that Sumter has fallen, what’s next on the programme?”
“Washington must be taken,” said Sanderson.
“We must winter in Philadelphia,” said Wigman.
“In what capacity? As conquerors or as captives?” said Kenrick.
“Is the gentleman at all shaky?” asked Sanderson.
“He has been shamming Abolitionism,” replied Onslow.