He was really a colonel, having served in the Civil War at the head of a Georgia regiment.
He had all the stately courtesy of a Southern gentleman, though not above the weakness of a frequent indulgence in the strongest fluids dispensed by Tim Bolton.
“What’ll you have, colonel?”
“Whiskey straight, sir. It’s the only drink fit for a gentleman. Will you join me, Mr. Bolton?”
“Of course, I will,” said Tim, as, pouring out a glass for himself, he handed the bottle to the colonel.
“Your health, sir,” said the colonel, bowing.
“Same to you, colonel,” responded Tim, with a nod.
“Where’s the boy?”
Col. Martin had always taken considerable notice of Dodger, being naturally fond of boys, and having once had a son of his own, who was killed in a railroad accident when about Dodger’s age.
“Danged if I know!” answered Tim, crossly.