"Shut up, Sim! Don't open your mouth again!" I whispered to him.
"Hookie!" replied he, in a suppressed tone.
"Well, Buckland," said our host, when we were seated in the parlor,—Sim with his mouth open almost as wide as his eyes,—"I should like to know something more about you. You have only told me what occurred after you saved Emily. How happened you to be floating down the river on a raft?"
I told my story, from the day my father died, keeping back nothing except the matter relating to Squire Fishley's infirmity.
"And your brother is here in New Orleans?" said he.
"Yes, sir. He has gone into business here."
"What is his name?"
"Clarence Bradford."
"Bradford! I thought your name was Buckland."
"John Buckland Bradford, sir."