There was no question in the minds of his neighbors as to whether the major maintained his new social position on Crab Island with more than ordinary liberality.  Like all new vigorous grafts on an old stock, he not only blossomed out with extraordinary richness, but sucked the sap of the primeval family tree quite dry in the process.  In fact, it was universally admitted that could the constant drain of his hospitality have been brought clearly to the attention of the original proprietor of the estate, its draft-power would have raised that distinguished military gentleman out of his grave.  “My dear friends,” Major Slocomb would say, when, after his wife’s death, some new extravagance was commented upon, “I felt I owed the additional slight expenditure to the memory of that queen among women, suh—­Major Talbot’s widow.”

He had espoused, too, with all the ardor of the new settler, the several articles of political faith of his neighbors,—­loyalty to the State, belief in the justice and humanity of slavery and the omnipotent rights of man,—­white, of course,—­and he had, strange to say, fallen into the peculiar pronunciation of his Southern friends, dropping his final g’s, and slurring his r’s, thus acquiring that soft cadence of speech which makes their dialect so delicious.

As to his title of “Major,” no one in or out of the county could tell where it originated.  He had belonged to no company of militia, neither had he won his laurels on either side during the war; nor yet had the shifting politics of his State ever honored him with a staff appointment of like grade.  When pressed, he would tell you confidentially that he had really inherited the title from his wife, whose first husband, as was well known, had earned and borne that military distinction; adding tenderly, that she had been so long accustomed to the honor that he had continued it after her death simply out of respect to her memory.

But the major was still interviewing Delmonico’s flunky, oblivious of everything but the purpose in view, when I touched his shoulder, and extended my hand.

“God bless me!  Not you?  Well, by gravy!  Here, now, colonel, you can tell me where Jack Hardy lives.  I’ve been for half an hour walkin’ round this garden lookin’ for him.  I lost the letter with the number in it, so I came over here to Delmonico’s—­Jack dines here often, I know, ’cause he told me so.  I was at his quarters once myself, but ’t was in the night.  I am completely bamboozled.  Left home yesterday—­brought up a couple of thoroughbred dogs that the owner wouldn’t trust with anybody but me, and then, too, I wanted to see Jack.”

I am not a colonel, of course, but promotions are easy with the major.

“Certainly; Jack lives right opposite.  Give me your bag.”

He refused, and rattled on, upbraiding me for not coming down to Crab Island last spring with the “boys” when the ducks were flying, punctuating his remarks here and there with his delight at seeing me looking so well, his joy at being near enough to Jack to shake the dear fellow by the hand, and the inexpressible ecstasy of being once more in New York, the centre of fashion and wealth, “with mo’ comfo’t to the square inch than any other spot on this terrestrial ball.”