"'My dear Sir: Name your own terms for contributing a daily article to the Fife. Select your own subjects.
St. Albans.'
"The miserable Briton involuntarily groaned, shook his head hopelessly, and once more touched the Ghost's rod. He heard the roll of drums, the scattering cracks of muskets, and found himself seated in the tent of that same Major General Steward who has so nobly said, on innumerable appropriate occasions, that he was ready to fulfil his whole duty in defeating the Southern rebels; but could not help wishing, as a man, that the enemy were Englishmen rather than our own brothers. Thenhe would show you!
"'I want to take a look at your military shopkeepers,' observed Mr. R. Fennarf, with great brutality, 'and see how you Bull Runners make your sandbanks—fortifications, as you absurdly call them. You're "Brute Steward," I suppose.'
"'Ha! ha!' laughed the able General, cheerily, 'that's what you English gents call me, I believe. We're going to have a battle, to-day, and you must stop and see it.'
"'A battle!' growled R. Fennarf. 'What do you mean by that? I've got a permit from your vulgar blunderers at Washington to go through your so-called lines to Richmond, as that's the only place where one can find anything like gentlemen in this blawsted country. I intend to go to-day, too; so you must put off your so-called battle.'
"He'll certainly kick me after that, thought R. Fennarf, beginning to feel quite hopeful.
"'Put off the battle?' said the great commander, cordially. 'I'll do it with pleasure, sir.'
"The Englishman stared at him in utter despair, and, for the last time, clasped his mystical rod, murmuring: 'Back to England, back to my own street. I give up all hope!'
"No sooner said than done. In a second he was at the corner of his own street, and, with the rod in his hand, started upon a distracted run for his own lonely house. Not looking where he ran, he went helter-skelter against a fine, fleshy old English gentleman with a plum nose and a gouty great-toe, who had hobbled out for a mouthful of night-air. Bang against this fine, fleshy old English gentleman went he, and down came one of his heels on the gouty great-toe.