“Whar d’yer larn yer manners? He’s havin’ a bout o’ whiskey with the boys; and I’d as soon think o’ techin’ a pant’er at his grub as a sodger at his whiskey.”
“If you tell him Somers is here, he will not take offence.”
“Yes, he will. Them’s good fellers. Go in and jine ’em,” said Skinley, throwing the door wide open.
Seated around a long table, on which there was still a plentiful supply of bacon and corn dodgers, and a great many bottles, were about twenty of the roughest looking fellows the staff officer had ever laid eyes upon. At the end of the board was De Banyan, apparently as happy and contented as the rest of the party. Somers had no difficulty in promptly arriving at the conclusion that the men were guerillas. They had evidently drank all the whiskey that was good for them.
“Come in, Somers,” shouted the major, uproariously. “Come in, and we will make room for you. My friend Somers,” he added, turning to his wild companions.
“Come in, Somers,” said half a dozen of the guerillas.
“Hand him the whiskey,” put in one, who sat at the farther end of the table.
“You’ll have to excuse him, boys,” interposed De Banyan. “He never drinks whiskey; it don’t agree with him. Have you any French brandy?”
“Not a drop.”
The major knew they had not; he was aware that Somers would fight the whole crowd rather than take a glass of liquor of any kind.