“And I am so comfo’table here.  I had a po’ter-house steak this mornin’—­you’re sure you won’t have one?” I shook my head.  “A po’ter-house steak, suh, that’ll haunt my memory for days.  We, of co’se, have at home every variety of fish, plenty of soft-shell crabs, and ’casionally a canvasback, when Hardy or some of my friends are lucky enough to hit one, but no meat that is wo’th the cookin’.  By the bye, I’ve come to take Jack home with me; the early strawberries are in their prime, now.  You will join us, of course?”

Before I could reply, Jefferson entered the room, laid a tray of cigars and cigarettes with a small silver alcohol lamp at my elbow, and, with a certain inquiring and, I thought, slightly surprised glance at the major’s sprawling attitude, noiselessly withdrew.  The major must have caught the expression on Jefferson’s face, for he dropped his telescope leg, and straightened up his back, with the sudden awkward movement of a similarly placed lounger surprised by a lady in a hotel parlor.  The episode seemed to knock the enthusiasm out of him, for after a moment he exclaimed in rather a subdued tone:—­

“Rather remarkable nigger, this servant of Jack’s.  I s’pose it is the influence of yo’ New York ways, but I am not accustomed to his kind.”

I began to defend Jefferson, but he raised both hands in protest.

“Yes, I know—­education and thirty dollars a month.  All very fine, but give me the old house-servants of the South—­the old Anthonys, and Keziahs, and Rachels.  They never went about rigged up like a stick of black sealing-wax in a suit of black co’t-plaster.  They were easy-goin’ and comfortable.  Yo’ interest was their interest; they bore yo’ name, looked after yo’ children, and could look after yo’ house, too.  Now see this nigger of Jack’s; he’s better dressed than I am, tips round as solemn on his toes as a marsh-crane, and yet I’ll bet a dollar he’s as slick and cold-hearted as a high-water clam.  That’s what education has done for him.

“You never knew Anthony, my old butler?  Well, I want to tell you, he was a servant, as was a servant.  During Mrs. Slocomb’s life”—­here the major assumed a reminiscent air, pinching his fat chin with his thumb and forefinger—­“we had, of co’se, a lot of niggers; but this man Anthony!  By gravy! when he filled yo’ glass with some of the old madeira that had rusted away in my cellar for half a century,”—­here the major now slipped his thumb into the armhole of his vest,—­“it tasted like the nectar of the gods, just from the way Anthony poured it out.

“But you ought to have seen him move round the table when dinner was over!  He’d draw himself up like a drum-major, and throw back the mahogany doors for the ladies to retire, with an air that was captivatin’.”  The major was now on his feet—­his reminiscent mood was one of his best.  “That’s been a good many years ago, colonel, but I can see him now just as plain as if he stood before me, with