What could I say to all this — what could I?  I staggered into an arm-chair, and, with staring eyes and open mouth, awaited the solution of the wonder.

“Strange you shouldn’t know me though, isn’t it?” presently re-squeaked the nondescript, which I now perceived was performing, upon the floor, some inexplicable evolution, very analogous to the drawing on of a stocking.  There was only a single leg, however, apparent.

“Strange you shouldn’t know me, though, isn’t it?  Pompey, bring me that leg!” Here Pompey handed the bundle, a very capital cork leg, already dressed, which it screwed on in a trice; and then it stood up before my eyes.

“And a bloody action it was,” continued the thing, as if in a soliloquy; “but then one mustn’t fight with the Bugaboos and Kickapoos, and think of coming off with a mere scratch.  Pompey, I’ll thank you now for that arm.  Thomas” [turning to me] “is decidedly the best hand at a cork leg; but if you should ever want an arm, my dear fellow, you must really let me recommend you to Bishop.”  Here Pompey screwed on an arm.

“We had rather hot work of it, that you may say.  Now, you dog, slip on my shoulders and bosom!  Pettitt makes the best shoulders, but for a bosom you will have to go to Ducrow.”

    “Bosom!” said I.

“Pompey, will you never be ready with that wig?  Scalping is a rough process after all; but then you can procure such a capital scratch at De L’Orme’s.”

    “Scratch!”

“Now, you nigger, my teeth!  For a good set of these you had better go to Parmly’s at once; high prices, but excellent work.  I swallowed some very capital articles, though, when the big Bugaboo rammed me down with the butt end of his rifle.”

    “Butt end! ram down!! my eye!!”

“O yes, by-the-by, my eye — here, Pompey, you scamp, screw it in ! Those Kickapoos are not so very slow at a gouge; but he’s a belied man, that Dr. Williams, after all; you can’t imagine how well I see with the eyes of his make.”

I now began very clearly to perceive that the object before me was nothing more nor less than my new acquaintance, Brevet Brigadier General John A. B. C. Smith.  The manipulations of Pompey had made, I must confess, a very striking difference in the appearance of the personal man.  The voice, however, still puzzled me no little; but even this apparent mystery was speedily cleared up.

“Pompey, you black rascal,” squeaked the General, “I really do believe you would let me go out without my palate.”

Hereupon, the negro, grumbling out an apology, went up to his master, opened his mouth with the knowing air of a horse-jockey, and adjusted therein a somewhat singular-looking machine, in a very dexterous manner, that I could not altogether comprehend.  The alteration, however, in the entire expression of the General’s countenance was instantaneous and surprising.  When he again spoke, his voice had resumed all that rich melody and strength which I had noticed upon our original introduction.