“He said that?” interrupted Major Colfax, half rising in his chair. “He was a damned scoundrel.”
“So I thought, sir,” I answered.
“The devil you did!” said the Major.
“Tut, Colfax,” said the Colonel, pulling him by the sleeve of his greatcoat, “sit down and let the lad finish. And then?”
“Mr. Boone had told me of a land agent who had made off with Colonel Campbell's silver spoons from Abingdon, and how the Colonel had ridden east and west after him for a week with a rope hanging on his saddle. I began to tell this story, and instead of the description of Mr. Boone's man, I put in that of Mr. Potts,—in height some five feet nine, spare, of sallow complexion and a green greatcoat.”
Major Colfax leaped up in his chair.
“Great Jehovah!” he shouted, “you described the wrong man.”
Colonel Clark roared with laughter, thereby spilling some of his toddy.
“I'll warrant he did so,” he cried; “and I'll warrant your agent went white as birch bark. Go on, Davy.”
“There's not a great deal more, sir,” I answered, looking apprehensively at Major Colfax, who still stood. “The man vowed I lied, but Tom laid hold of him and was for hurrying him off to Harrodstown at once.”