“Yes—every thing is gloomy now. The devil of high-headed obstinacy and incompetence rules affairs. I do not croak in the Examiner newspaper. But we are going straight to the devil.”
As he uttered these words, he placed his hand upon his breast, and closed his eyes, as though he were going to faint.
“What is the matter?” I exclaimed, rising abruptly, and approaching him.
“Nothing!” he replied, in a weak voice; “don’t disturb yourself about me. These fits of faintness come on, now and then, in consequence of an attack of pneumonia which I had lately. Sit down, colonel. You must really pardon me for saying it, but you make me nervous.”
There was nothing in the tone of this singular address to take offence at,—the voice of the speaker was perfectly courteous,—and I resumed my seat.
“We were talking about Sherman,” he said. “They call him Gog, Magog, anti-Christ, I know not what, in the clerical circles of this city!”
His lip curled as he spoke.
“One reverend divine publicly declared the other day, that ‘God had put a hook in Sherman’s nose, and was leading him to his destruction!’ I don’t think it looks much like it!”
The speaker was stopped by a fit of coughing, and when it had subsided, leaned back, faint and exhausted, in his chair.
“The fact is—Sherman—” he said, with difficulty, “seems to have—the hook in—our nose!”