"I do that very thing," responded the Squire.
"And you, on your part," continued Bigelow, turning to Aunt Graves, "promise to behave yourself and obey the Squire in all things."
Aunt Graves said "she would, Providence permitting."
This marriage ceremony, I believe, is nearly word for word.
"Then," said Turtle, "wheel yourselves into line, and let's have a dance;" and drawing out his fiddle the whole crowd, in five minutes, were tearing down at a most furious rate; and when I departed, at about midnight, the storm was raging still higher, the whiskey and hot water circulated freely, Turtle looked quite abstracted about his eyes, and his footsteps were growing more and more uncertain, Bulliphant's face shone like a full moon, the voices of the females, a little stimulated, were as noisy and confused as those of Babel, and your humble servant—why, he walked home as straight as a gun—of course he did—and was able to distinguish a hay-stack from a meeting-house, anywhere along the road.
CHAPTER XII.
The Group at "The Eagle."—Entrée of a Stranger.—His Opinion of the Tavern.—Bulliphant wakes up.—Can't pick Fowls after Dark.—Sad Case of Mother Gantlet and Dr. Teazle.—Mr. Farindale begins to unbend.—Whistle & Sharp, and their Attorney.—Good Pay.—Legal Conversation.—Going Sniping.—Great Description of the Animal.—The Party start, Farindale holding the Bag.—"Waiting for Snipe."—Farindale's Solitary Return.—His Interview with Whistle & Sharp.—Suing a Puddleford Firm.—Relief Laws.—Farindale gets his Execution.—The Puddleford Bank.—The Appraisers.—Proceeds of the Execution.
Late in the fall of the year, early one evening, Turtle, Longbow, Bates, the "Colonel," Swipes, and Beagle were congregated at the Eagle. Turtle and Bates were engaged at a game of checkers, and each one, fast-anchored at his right hand, had a glass of whiskey and water, or, as Turtle called it, "a little diluted baldface." Their mouths were pierced with a pipe, in the left hand corner, which hung loosely and rakishly down, besmearing their laps with ashes, and now and then they puffed forth a column of smoke. The "Colonel," Longbow, and the other Puddlefordians were ranged round the fire. The Colonel sat in a rickety chair, his feet hoisted up on the mantel on a line with his nose, and his shoulders hitched over the ends of its posts; the Squire was busily looking into the glowing coals, his hands clasped across his breast, unravelling some question of law, and Swipes sat very affectionately on Beagle's lap, his right arm thrown around his neck.