“I’m from Virginia, sir,” replied the boy, straightening up with a little of the Old Dominion pride, I thought.
“Ah!” exclaimed his new-found friend, “I was sure I detected a little of the old cavalier strain in your face. What is your name, may I ask?”
“Gordon Cabell, sir.”
“Well, Master Cabell, I know your breed pretty well; I’m from—well, I’ve met southern boys before. Now, I’m going to talk plainly to you, and you mustn’t be offended. I’m going to be your friend, for to-night, at least, and you must listen to me.
“I’m not going to give you a moral lecture on gambling or liquor drinking. I presume that the Gordons, Cabells, and many more of your ancestors, have played cards, drunk whisky, raced horses, attended cock fights, and fought duels, and have done many other things that people with colder blood object to, but they did all these things like gentlemen, I’ll warrant you. Now, tell me, young fellow, did you ever know of a Cabell doing what you have done, and still worse, what you were going to do to-night?”
“Sir!” said the boy indignantly, reaching toward his pistol, “I will—”
“Oh, no you won’t, Master Cabell. Look me in the eye, please!” and the boy gazed at the stranger wonderingly, as he drew his tall form up to its full height, calmly folded his arms, and looked down upon him.
“I have already told you that I am your friend, Gordon, and the Cabells do not make targets of their friends. Give me your pistol, sir!”
The boy almost mechanically drew his pistol from the holster beneath his loose-fitting coat, and obeying the mandate of a will more powerful than his own, handed it to his companion.
“Thank you, Gordon,” said the stranger, “I’ll return it to you presently.