"Come, Jul, rig yourself in a jiffy," said a bonny lassie, who had not yet spoken, "you are in for a spree!"
"What's in the wind—who's to stand the shot?" cautiously inquired the damsel addressed.
"We're bound on a spree, I tell you! You must be green to think we'll own the corn now! Come, fix up, immediately, if not sooner!" so saying, the energetic speaker seized her friend round the waist and gallopaded her out of the room.
Presently some one said, "Well, Jul and Lotty have made themselves scarce!—I——by George, it makes a fellow open his potato-trap to hang around waitin' so," and an expansive yawn attested the sincerity of this declaration.
"I could scare up my traps a heap sight quicker, I reckon, and tote 'em too, from here to the river, nigger fashion," rejoined a Southerner, of the group.
"Some chicken fixins and pie doins wouldn't be so bad—would they, though?" whispered a tall, Western man to his next neighbor.
"And a little suthin to wet your whistle, too," added another, overhearing the remark—"you're a trump, anyhow!"
"Then you do kill a snake, sometimes, Mr. Smith," inquired one of his auditors, smiling significantly.
"Does your anxious mother know you're out?" retorted Mr. Smith, twirling his fingers on his nose.
"Don't be wrathy, Smith—what's your tipple, old fellow?" put in one of the young men, soothingly stroking the broad shoulders of that interesting youth.