“No. I am from the other side of the Atlantic.”
“Oh! A Britisher. Wal, that don’t make no difference in Texas. Thar’s all sorts thar. English, ain’t ye?”
“No,” promptly answered the stranger, with a slight scornful curling of the lip: “I’m an Irishman, and not one of those who deny it.”
“All the better for that. Thar’s a bit of the same blood somewhar in my own veins, out o’ a grandmother, I b’lieve, as kim over the mountains into Kaintuck, ’long wi’ Dan Boone an’ his lot. So ye’ve been eddycated at a milintary school, then? D’ye unnerstan’ anything about the trainin’ o’ sogers?”
“Certainly I do.”
“Dog-goned, ef you ain’t the man we want! How’d ye like to be an officer? I reck’n ye’re best fit for that.”
“Of course I should like it; but as a stranger among you, I shouldn’t stand much chance of being elected. You choose your officers, don’t you?”
“Sartin, we eelect ’em; an’ we’re goin’ to hold the eelections this very night. Lookee hyar, young fellur; I like yer looks, an’ I’ve seed proof ye’ve got the stuff in ye. Now, I want to tell ye somethin’ ye oughter to know. I belong to this company that’s jest a formin’, and thar’s a fellur settin’ hisself up to be its capting. He’s a sort o’ half Spanish, half French-Creole, o’ Noo-Orleans hyar, an’ we old Texans don’t think much o’ him. But thar’s only a few o’ us; while ’mong the Orleans city fellurs as are goin’ out to, he’s got a big pop’larity by standin’ no eend o’ drinks. He ain’t a bad lookin’ sort for sogerin’, and has seen milintary sarvice, they say. F’r all that, thar’s a hangdog glint ’bout his eyes this chile don’t like; neither do some o’ the others. So, young un, if you’ll come down to the rendyvoo in good time, an’ make a speech—you kin speechify, can’t ye?”
“Oh, I suppose I could say something.”
“Wal, you stump it, an’ I’ll put in a word or two, an’ then we’ll perpose ye for capting; an’ who knows we mayent git the majority arter all? You’er willin’ to try, ain’t ye?”