“‘Do you think that’s any worse than yo’ comin’ down here and tryin’ to bunco me with a swindle like that’—and he picked up the document and tossed it on the flo’.
“You know me well enough, Major, to know what followed. Befo’ the words were out of his mouth he was flat on his back and I standin’ over him with my cane. Then his clerks rushed in and separated us. My present situation is the result.”
The Colonel stopped and looked about the prison corridor. “Strange and interestin’ place, isn’t it, Major? I shall be reasonably comfo’table here, I s’pose”—and he raised his eyes towards the white-washed ceiling. “There is not quite so much room as I had at City Point when I was a prisoner of war, but I shall get along, no doubt. I have not inqui’ed yet whether they will allow me a servant, but if they do I shall have Chad bring me down some comfo’ts in the mornin’. I think I should like a blanket and pillow and perhaps an easy-chair. I can tell better after passin’ the night here. By the way, Major, on yo’ way home you might stop and see Chad. Tell him the facts exactly as I have stated them to you. He will understand; he was with me, you remember, when I was overpow’ed and captured the last year of the War.”
The Turnkey, who had been pacing up and down the corridor, stopped in front of the gate. The Colonel read the expression on his face, and shaking my hand warmly, said with the same air that a captured general might have had in taking leave of a member of his staff:
“The officer seems impatient, Major, and I must, therefo’, ask you to excuse me. My dear love to Fitz, and tell him not to give my imprisonment a thought. Good-by,” and he waved his hand majestically and stepped back into the cell.
III
The arrival of Fitz in a cab at the police-station half an hour later—just time enough for me to run all the way to his office—the bailing out of the Colonel much against his protest, his consent being gained only when Fitz and I assured him that such things were quite within the limit of our judicial code, and that no stain on his honor would or could ensue from any such relief; the Colonel’s formal leave-taking of the Captain, the Sergeant and the Turnkey, each of whom he thanked impressively for the courtesies they had shown him; our driving—the Colonel and I—post-haste to Bedford Place, lest by any means Chad might have heard of the affair and so be frightened half out of his wits; the calm indifference of that loyal darky when he ushered us into the hall and heard the Colonel’s statement, and Chad’s sententious comment: “In de Calaboose, Colonel! Well, fo’ Gawd! what I tell ye ’bout dis caanin’ bis’ness. Got to git dem barkers ready jes’ I tol’ ye; dat’s de only thing dat’ll settle dis muss,”—these and other incidents of the day equally interesting form connecting links in a story which has not only become part of the history of the Carter family but which still serve as delightful topics whenever the Colonel’s name is mentioned by his many friends in the Street.