“Quite willing,” answered the Irishman, with an emphasis which showed how much the proposal was to his mind. “But why, Mr Rock, are you not a candidate yourself? You have seen service, and would make a good officer, I should say.”
“Me kandydate for officer! Wal, I’m big enough, thet’s true, and ef you like, ugly enuf. But I ain’t no ambeeshum thet way. Besides, this chile knows nothin’ ’bout drill; an’ that’s what’s wanted bad. Ye see, we ain’t had much reg’lar sogerin’ in Texas. Thar’s whar the Mexikins hev the advantage o’ us, an’ thar’s whar you’ll hev the same if you’ll consent to stan’. You say you will?”
“I will, if you wish it.”
“All square then,” returned the Texan, once more taking his protégé by the hand, and giving it a squeeze like the grip of a grizzly bear. “I’ll be on the lookout for ye. Meanwhile, thar’s six hours to the good yet afore it git sundown. So go and purpar’ yur speech, while I slide roun’ among the fellurs, an’ do a leetle for ye in the line o’ canvassin’.”
After a final bruin-like pressure of the hand the giant had commenced striding away, when he came again to a halt, uttering a loud “Hiloo!”
“What is it?” inquired the young Irishman.
“It seems that Cris Rock air ’bout one o’ the biggest nummorskulls in all Noo-Orleans. Only to think! I was about startin’ to take the stump for a kandydate ’ithout knowin’ the first letter o’ his name. How wur ye crissened, young fellur?”
“Kearney—Florence Kearney.”
“Florence, ye say? Ain’t that a woman’s name?”
“True; but in Ireland many men bear it.”