“George!—George Washington?—you mean George Washington! No, madam, he has not a particle of intelligence.—He is grossly and densely stupid. I have never in fifty years been able to get an idea into his head.”
“Oh, dear! and I thought him so clever! I was wondering how so intelligent a person, so well informed, could be a slave.”
The Major faced about.
“George! George Washington a slave! Madam, you misapprehend the situation. He is no slave. I am the slave, not only of him but of three hundred more as arrogant and exacting as the Czar, and as lazy as the devil!”
Miss Jemima threw up her hands in astonishment, and the Major, who was on a favorite theme, proceeded:
“Why, madam, the very coat on my back belongs to that rascal George Washington, and I do not know when he may take a fancy to order me out of it. My soul is not my own. He drinks my whiskey, steals my tobacco, and takes my clothes before my face. As likely as not he will have on this very waistcoat before the week is out.”
The Major stroked his well-filled velvet vest caressingly, as if he already felt the pangs of the approaching separation.
“Oh, dear! You amaze me,” began Miss Jemima.
“Yes, madam, I should be amazed myself, except that I have stood it so long. Why, I had once an affair with an intimate and valued friend, Judge Carrington. You may have heard of him, a very distinguished man! and I was indiscreet enough to carry that rascal George Washington to the field, thinking, of course, that I ought to go like a gentleman, and although the affair was arranged after we had taken our positions, and I did not have the pleasure of shooting at him.
“Good heavens!” exclaimed Miss Jemima. “The pleasure of shooting at your friend! Monstrous!”