In a few moments the nicely-cooked spare-rib was smoking on the table, together with hot coffee, boiled turnips and egg bread, which Southern cooks know so well how to make. Besides this there was the golden-colored butter, white flaky honeycomb, and the Sunday pitcher overflowing with rich creamy milk. "Come, boys, set by and have some fodder!" said Mr. Middleton.
The young gentlemen took their seats at the table and Mr. Middleton continued, "Now lay into 't and help yourselves. I ain't used to perlite strains, and if I should try you'd all larf [pg 082] at me—mebby you want to now. Tempest say's I'm enough to make a dog larf."
"Who is Tempest? One of your servants?" asked Stanton.
"Christopher Columbus! One of my servants!" answered Mr. Middleton. "How Tempest would rar to hear that. Why, she's my oldest gal."
"I beg your pardon," said Stanton.
"Not a bit on't," answered Mr. Middleton. "I don't wonder you thought so, such an oudun name! Her real name is Julia, but I call her Tempest, 'case that's jist like her. She's a regular thunderstorm of lightning, hail and iron slugs. You'll see her in Frankfort. Goin' into the law thar, are you?"
Stanton answered that he thought he should.
"Well," said Mr. Middleton, "I'll give you all my suits, just because you wouldn't drink and tell a lie to that little gal at home. I despise liars. Let me catch a body telling me a lie, I tell you—"
Here he lifted up his huge foot which was encased in a cowhide boot, something smaller than a canal-boat. He gave the table a kick which set all the spoons, knives and forks to dancing, spilt the milk and upset the gravy pot.
"Why, Mr. Middleton!" interposed his wife.