To this the Colonel made no reply, and Mr. Sanders became the complainant. "I dunner what we're comin' to," he declared, "when a passel of Yankees can yerk four of our best young men on a train in this town in broad daylight, an' all the folks a-stanin' aroun' gapin' at 'em, an' wonderin' what they're gwine to do next."
"Say no more, Mr. Sanders; say no more—the mule is yours." This in the slang of the day meant that the point at issue had been surrendered.
"I suppose Lucy Lumsden is utterly crushed on Gabriel's account," remarked Mrs. Blasengame.
"Crushed!" exclaimed Mr. Sanders; "no, ma'am! not much, if any. She's fightin' mad."
"I know well how she feels," said the pale, bright-eyed little woman. "It is a pity the men can't have the same feeling."
"Why, honey, what good would it do?" the Colonel asked, somewhat querulously.
"It would do no good; it would do harm—to some people."
"And yet," said the Colonel, turning to Mr. Sanders with a protesting frown on his face, "when I want to show some fellow that I'm still on top of the ground, or when Tomlin takes down his gun and goes after some rascal, she makes such a racket that you'd think the world was coming to an end."
"A racket! I make a racket? Why, Mr. Blasengame, I'm ashamed of you! the idea!"
"Well, racket ain't the word, I reckon; but you look so sorry, honey, that to me it's the same as making a racket. It takes all the grit out of me when I know that you are sitting here, wondering what minute I'll be brought home cut into jiblets, or shot full of holes."