In Swartz’ store the fat owner was still in his accustomed seat, while the usual loafers still persistently loafed, but there were soldiers everywhere.
“Whew, this is something new for Conejo!” whistled Tom. “I reckon I’d better have a word with Dutch before I horn in. Say, Swartz,” he said, pushing a crowd of youngsters out of the way, “got anything to drink? I’ve just walked in from Athens.”
“My Gott, are you mad?” inquired Swartz, pleasantly.
“Not yet, but I’m likely to be if I don’t get something down my gullet. Got any beer?”
“Beer?” Swartz’ contempt was sweeping. “Look at dem,” pointing to the soldiers. “Doos that look like I haf any beer mit dem fellers around?”
“Who are they? Federals or Rebs?”
“De State troops. Don’t you know dis here state has—what you call it—seceded?”
“Martial law, eh?”
Swartz nodded.
“Did they grab your stuff or did they pay for it?”