I happened to be standing within five feet of a cuspidor when Major Caswell opened fire upon it.  I had been observant enough to perceive that the attacking force was using Gatlings instead of squirrel rifles; so I side-stepped so promptly that the major seized the opportunity to apologize to a noncombatant.  He had the blabbing lip.  In four minutes he had become my friend and had dragged me to the bar.

I desire to interpolate here that I am a Southerner.  But I am not one by profession or trade.  I eschew the string tie, the slouch hat, the Prince Albert, the number of bales of cotton destroyed by Sherman, and plug chewing.  When the orchestra plays Dixie I do not cheer.  I slide a little lower on the leather-cornered seat and, well, order another Wuerzburger and wish that Longstreet had—­but what’s the use?

Major Caswell banged the bar with his fist, and the first gun at Fort Sumter re-echoed.  When he fired the last one at Appomattox I began to hope.  But then he began on family trees, and demonstrated that Adam was only a third cousin of a collateral branch of the Caswell family.  Genealogy disposed of, he took up, to my distaste, his private family matters.  He spoke of his wife, traced her descent back to Eve, and profanely denied any possible rumor that she may have had relations in the land of Nod.

By this time I was beginning to suspect that he was trying to obscure by noise the fact that he had ordered the drinks, on the chance that I would be bewildered into paying for them.  But when they were down he crashed a silver dollar loudly upon the bar.  Then, of course, another serving was obligatory.  And when I had paid for that I took leave of him brusquely; for I wanted no more of him.  But before I had obtained my release he had prated loudly of an income that his wife received, and showed a handful of silver money.

When I got my key at the desk the clerk said to me courteously:  “If that man Caswell has annoyed you, and if you would like to make a complaint, we will have him ejected.  He is a nuisance, a loafer, and without any known means of support, although he seems to have some money most the time.  But we don’t seem to be able to hit upon any means of throwing him out legally.”

“Why, no,” said I, after some reflection; “I don’t see my way clear to making a complaint.  But I would like to place myself on record as asserting that I do not care for his company.  Your town,” I continued, “seems to be a quiet one.  What manner of entertainment, adventure, or excitement have you to offer to the stranger within your gates?”

“Well, sir,” said the clerk, “there will be a show here next Thursday.  It is—­I’ll look it up and have the announcement sent up to your room with the ice water.  Good night.”

After I went up to my room I looked out the window.  It was only about ten o’clock, but I looked upon a silent town.  The drizzle continued, spangled with dim lights, as far apart as currants in a cake sold at the Ladies’ Exchange.