“What kind of a machine do ye call that?” he asked, eyeing the instrument with a profound glance.
“This,” said the Colonel, hastening to explain, “is the improved Gatling gun.”
“An’ ye’ve come all the way to this God-forsaken hole to sell it?” said the man. “What’s it fur, anyhow?”
“Cats,” replied the Colonel, with the gravest expression in the world.
“Wal, we ain’t got no cats round here,” said the man. “Haint seen the ghost o’ one in years.”
“Don’t believe him,” I said, interposing, “It’s not a Gatling gun; it is a camera—an instrument for taking pictures—likenesses.”
“Oh!” drawled the man, “I see! He-he! Queer lookin’ affair, ain’t it? Looks like one o’ these patent coffee-grinders I seed down at ’Guster (Augusta) when I was there last.”
“Sir, you insinuate,” said the Colonel. “We have had neither sight nor taste of coffee in weeks, and we don’t sport a coffee-grinder for bare admiration’s sake, we can tell you.”
“Which brings us to our business,” said I. “We have just come from Moosehead Lake. Can you get up a dinner for the crowd?”
“Wal, yes, I guess so,” said the man in a half-dubious tone, as he took in the calibre of the party.