What was I to say?
“Not especially, sir,” I answered finally. “I have had to offend her rather often. But I know that she likes my mother.”
“Why!” he cried, jumping up, “she's a daughter of Colonel Carvel. I always had an admiration for that man. An ideal Southern gentleman of the old school,—courteous, as honorable and open as the day, and as brave as a lion. You've heard the story of how he threw a man named Babcock out of his store, who tried to bribe him?”
“I heard you tell it in that tavern, sir. And I have heard it since.” It did me good to hear the Colonel praised.
“I always liked that story,” he said. “By the way, what's become of the Colonel?”
“He got away—South, sir,” I answered. “He couldn't stand it. He hasn't been heard of since the summer of '63. They think he was killed in Texas. But they are not positive. They probably never will be,” I added. He was silent awhile.
“Too bad!” he said. “Too bad. What stuff those men are made of! And so you want me to pardon this Colfax?”
“It would be presumptuous in me to go that far, sir,” I replied. “But I hoped you might speak of it to the General when he comes. And I would be glad of the opportunity to testify.”
He took a few strides up and down the room.
“Well, well,” he said, “that's my vice—pardoning, saying yes. It's always one more drink with me. It—” he smiled—“it makes me sleep better. I've pardoned enough Rebels to populate New Orleans. Why,” he continued, with his whimsical look, “just before I left Washington, in comes one of your Missouri senators with a list of Rebels who are shut up in McDowell's and Alton. I said:— “'Senator, you're not going to ask me to turn loose all those at once?'