“Fiddle-de-dee, Moultrie,” said Abel to him, laughing; “the South is no more insulted because Major Scuppernong, of North Carolina, gets drunk and makes a fool of himself than the North is insulted because General Smith, of Vermont, and the Honorable Dinks, of Boston, make fools of themselves without getting drunk.  Do you suppose that, at this time of night, any of these people have the remotest idea of the points of the compass?  Their sole interest at the present moment is to know whether the gallant Major will tumble under the table before he gets through his speech.”

But the gallant Major did not get through his speech at all, because he never began it.  The longer he stood the unsteadier he grew, and the more profusely he wept.  Once or twice he made a motion, as if straightening himself to begin.  The noise at table then subsided a little.  The guests cried “H’st.”  There was a moment of silence, during which the eloquent and gallant Major mopped the lingering tears with his napkin, then his mouth opened in a maudlin smile; the roar began again, until at last the smile changed into a burst of sobbing, and to Abel Newt’s extreme discomfiture, and Sligo Moultrie’s secret amusement, Major Scuppernong suddenly turned and fell upon Abel’s neck, and tenderly embraced him, whispering with tipsy tenderness, “My dearest Belch, I love you!  Yes, by Heaven!  I swear I love you!”

Abel called the waiters, and had the gallant and eloquent Major removed to a sofa.

“He enjoys life, the Major, Sir,” said Captain Lamb, of Pennsylvania, at Abel’s left hand; “a generous, large-hearted man.  So is our host, Sir.  General Belch is a man who knows enough to go in when it rains.”

Captain Lamb, of Pennsylvania, cocked one eye at his glass, and then opening his mouth, and throwing his head a little back, tipped the entire contents down at one swallow.  He filled the glass again, took a puff at his cigar, scratched his head a moment with the handle of a spoon, then opening his pocket-knife, proceeded to excavate some recesses in his teeth with the blade.

“Is Dinks a rising man in Massachusetts, do you know, Sir?” asked Captain Lamb of Abel, while the knife waited and rested a moment on the outside of the mouth.

“I believe he is, Sir,” said Abel, at a venture.

“Wasn’t there some talk of his going on a foreign mission?  Seems to me I heard something.”

“Oh! yes,” replied Abel.  “I’ve heard a good deal about it.  But I am not sure that he has received his commission yet.”

Captain Lamb cocked his eye at Abel as if he had been a glass of wine.

Abel rose, and, seating himself by Sligo Moultrie, entered into conversation.

But his object in moving was not talk.  It was to give the cue to the company of changing their places, so that he might sit where he would.  He drifted and tacked about the table for some time, and finally sailed into the port toward which he had been steering—­an empty chair by Mr. Dinks.  They said, good-evening.  Mr. Dinks added, with a patronizing air,