“And where did you drop from”—accepting an Havana; “the Blue Grass?”
“I reckon.”
“But what are you doing in New England, when you should be in Kentucky?”
“Doing, I? oh, well,” said my friend, with a shade of constraint; then with a quizzical smile, “You are a Yankee; guess.”
“Take care.”
“Guess.”
“Running away from your creditors?”
The colonel’s chin cut the air contemptuously.
“Running after a woman, perhaps?”
My companion quickly took the cigar from his lips, looked at me with mouth half opened, then stammered, “What in blue brimstone put that into your head?”