“Mr. Hardy’s orders are that I should inform every gentleman when he retires that there’s plenty of whiskey and cigars on the sideboard, and that”—­here Jefferson glanced at the bag—­“and that if any gentleman came unprepared there was a night shirt and a pair of pajams in the closet.”

“I never wore one of ’em in my life, Jefferson; but you can put the whiskey and the cigars on the chair by my bed, in case I wake in the night.”

When Jefferson, in answer to my inquiries as to how the major had passed the night, related this incident to me the following morning, I could detect, under all his deference and respect toward his master’s guest, a certain manner and air plainly implying that, so far as the major and himself were concerned, every other but the most diplomatic of relations had been suspended.

The major, by this time, was in full possession of my friend’s home.  The only change in his dress was in the appearance of his shoes, polished by Jefferson to a point verging on patent leather, and the adoption of a black alpaca coat, which, although it wrinkled at the seams with a certain home-made air, still fitted his fat shoulders very well.  To this were added a fresh shirt and collar, a white tie, nankeen vest, and the same tight-fitting, splay-footed trousers, enriched by a crease of Jefferson’s own making.

As he lay sprawled out on Hardy’s divan, with his round, rosy, clean-shaven face, good-humored mouth, and white teeth, the whole enlivened by a pair of twinkling eyes, you forgot for the moment that he was not really the sole owner of the establishment.  Further intercourse thoroughly convinced you of a similar lapse of memory on the major’s part.

“My dear colonel, let me welcome you to my New York home!” he exclaimed, without rising from the divan.  “Draw up a chair; have a mouthful of mocha?  Jefferson makes it delicious.  Or shall I call him to broil another po’ter-house steak?  No?  Then let me ring for some cigars,” and he touched the bell.

To lie on a divan, reach out one arm, and, with the expenditure of less energy than would open a match-box, to press a button summoning an attendant with all the unlimited comforts of life,—­juleps, cigars, coffee, cocktails, morning papers, fans, matches out of arm’s reach, everything that soul could covet and heart long for; to see all these several commodities and luxuries develop, take shape, and materialize while he lay flat on his back,—­this to the major was civilization.

“But, colonel, befo’ you sit down, fling yo’ eye over that garden in the square.  Nature in her springtime, suh!”

I agreed with the major, and was about to take in the view over the treetops, when he tucked another cushion under his head, elongated his left leg until it reached the window-sill, thus completely monopolizing it,-and continued without drawing a breath:—­