“I am usooally called kurnel here,” interrupted the backwoods militario, with a bland smile, as if half deprecating the title, and that it was forced upon him.
“Of course,” continued he, “you, sir, bein’ a strenger—”
“I beg your pardon, Colonel Kipp: I am a stranger to your city, and of course—”
“Don’t signify a dump, sir,” interrupted he, rather good-humouredly, in return for the show of deference I had made, as also, perhaps for my politeness in having styled Swampville a city. “Business in Swampville, you say?”
“Yes,” I replied; and, seeing it upon his lips to inquire the nature of my business—which I did not wish to make known just then—I forestalled him by the question: “Do you chance to know such a place as Holt’s Clearing?”
“Chance to know such a place as Holt’s Clearin’?”
“Yes; Holt’s Clearing.”
“Wal, there air such a place.”
“Is it distant?”
“If you mean Hick Holt’s Clearin’, it’s a leetle better’n six miles from here. He squats on Mud Crik.”