"Pass me that bread," snaps Clark.
"But Cobden," says Shelton again.
"It's hot," says I, "and it's fried, and—"
"Give it to me! If you don't I shall know it's because you're too rip-slap stingy to part with it."
After that, there was nothin' to be done but the one thing. He got the bread and he ate it—not one slice, but two. And he drank coffee and ate a three-inch slab of shortcake. When the meal was over there wa'n't enough left to feed a healthy canary.
"Now," growls the Major, turnin' to Shelton, "have you a cigar in your pocket? If you have, hand it over."
The Congressman fairly gasped. "A cigar!" he sings out. "You—goin' to smoke? You?"
"Yes—me. I'm goin' to die anyway. This murderer here," p'intin' to me, "laid his plans to kill me and he's succeeded. But I'll die happy. Give me that cigar! If you had a drink about you I'd take that."
He bit the end off his cigar, lit it, and slammed out of that kitchen, puffin' like a soft-coal tug. Shelton shook his head at me and I shook mine back.
"Do you s'pose he will die?" he asked. "He's eaten enough to kill anybody. And with his stomach! And to smoke!"