“A most excellent rule,” the General declared, with admiration.
So the General, having given the Captain one of the two very limp shirts which “the thoughtfulness of a dear friend, Mrs. Cary, of Birdwood,” had provided for him, arrayed himself in the other and set out to pay his respects to his friends in the upper end of the county, leaving his guest stretched out on a lounge.
He had not been gone long when the Captain ordered his horse and rode off in the direction of the court-house.
On arriving at the county seat the new-comer rode straight to the tavern, and dismounting, gave his horse to a servant and walked in. As he entered he gave one of those swift, keen glances, and then asked for Mrs. Witcher, the landlady. When she arrived, a languid, delicate-looking woman, the Captain was all graciousness, and, in a few moments, Mrs. Witcher was equally complacent. In fact, the new-comer had decided on the first glance that this was good enough for him, at least, till he could do better. The Captain told Mrs. Witcher that he had not had a really square meal in two months, and had not slept in a bed in six months.
“A floor, madam, or a table, so it is long enough, is all I desire. Upon my word and honor I don’t think I could sleep in a bed.”
But Mrs. Witcher insisted that he should try, and so the Captain condescended to make the experiment, after giving her a somewhat detailed account of his extensive family connection, and of an even larger circle of friends, which included the commanding Generals of all the armies and everybody else of note in the country besides.
“Well, this suits me,” he said as he walked into the room assigned him. “Jim, who occupied this room last?” he asked the darky—whose name happened to be Paul.
“Well, I forgits the gent’man’s name, he died in dis room.”
“Did he? How?”