"Getting hotter, I believe, John."
"I presume it is, sir." The Major sat with his elbow resting on a desk, and about him were stacked threatening bundles of papers; and old Gid knew that in those commercial romances he himself was a familiar character.
"Are you busy, John?"
"Yes, but you may come in."
"No, I thank you. Don't believe I've got time."
"Then take time. I want to talk to you. Come in."
"No, not to-day, John. Fact is I'm not feeling very well. Head's all stopped up with a cold, and these summer colds are awful, I tell you. It was a summer cold that took my father off."
"How's your cotton in that low strip along the bayou?"
"Tolerable, John; tolerable."
"Come in. I want to talk to you about it."