Having reached a conclusion, the Captain turned over in bed and composed himself for sleep.
At nine o’clock the next morning, the bar-room of the “Union” contained only Dennis and our friend the Captain. Breakfast was over, and the most of the temporary occupants of the tavern were in the public square. Captain Suggs was watching for Mr. Pullum, who had not yet come down to breakfast.
At length an uncertain step was heard on the stairway, and a young man, whose face showed indisputable evidence of a frolic on the previous night, descended. His eyes were bloodshot, and his expression was a mingled one of shame and fear. Captain Suggs walked up to him, as he entered the bar-room, gazed at his face earnestly, and slowly placing his hand on his shoulder, as slowly, and with a stern expression, said:
“Your—name—is—Pullum!”
“I know it is,” said the young man.
“Come this way then,” said Suggs, pulling his victim out into the street, and still gazing at him with the look of a stern but affectionate parent. Turning to Dennis as they went out, he said:
“Have a cup of coffee ready for this young man in fifteen minutes, and his horse by the time he’s done drinking it.”
Mr. Pullum looked confounded, but said nothing, and he and the Captain walked over to a vacant blacksmith’s shop across the street, where they could be free from observation.
“You’re from Wetumpka last,” remarked Suggs with severity, and as if his words charged a crime.
“What if I am?” replied Pullum, with an effort to appear bold.