“You were not parted?”
“You fought it out, did you?”
The colonel resumed, “Why, there is no telling how the fight might have gone; an old Virginian, who had seen Francesco, and Otey, and Lewis, and Blevins, and all the best men of the day, said he had never seen any one stand up to their fodder better than we did. We had fought round and round, and about and about, all over the courtyard, and, at last, just to end the fight, every body was getting tired of it; so, at l—a—a—s—t, I hollored.”—(Exit Colonel.)
XV.
THE FASTEST FUNERAL ON RECORD.[[10]]
I had just crossed the long bridge leading from Boston to Cambridgeport, and was plodding my dusty way on foot through that not very agreeable suburb, on a sultry afternoon in July, with a very creditable thunder-cloud coming up in my rear, when a stout elderly gentleman, with a mulberry face, a brown coat, and pepper-and-salt smalls, reined up his nag, and after learning that I was bound for Old Cambridge, politely invited me to take a seat beside him in the little sort of tax-cart he was driving. Nothing loth, I consented, and we were soon en route. The mare he drove was a very peculiar animal. She had few good points to the eye, being heavy-bodied, hammer-headed, thin in the shoulders, bald-faced, and rejoicing in a little stump of a tail which was almost entirely innocent of hair. But there were “lots of muscle,” as Major Longbow says, in her hind quarters.
“She aint no Wenus, Sir,” said my new acquaintance, pointing with his whip to the object of my scrutiny—“but handsome is as handsome does. Them’s my sentiments. She’s a rum ’un to look at, but a good ’un to go.”
“Indeed?”
“Yes, Sir! That there mare, Sir, has made good time—I may say, very good time before the hearse.”
“Before the hearse?”
“Before the hearse! S’pose you never heard of burying a man on time! I’m a sexton, Sir, and undertaker—Jack Crossbones, at your service—‘Daddy Crossbones’ they call me at Porter’s.”