“Well, but why should he shake her?”

“That’s what I say—­but some people does.”

“Not people of any repute?”

“Well, some that averages pretty so-so.”

“In my opinion the man that would offer personal violence to his own mother, ought to—­”

“Cheese it, pard; you’ve banked your ball clean outside the string.  What I was a drivin’ at, was, that he never throwed off on his mother —­don’t you see?  No indeedy.  He give her a house to live in, and town lots, and plenty of money; and he looked after her and took care of her all the time; and when she was down with the small-pox I’m d—–­d if he didn’t set up nights and nuss her himself!  Beg your pardon for saying it, but it hopped out too quick for yours truly.

“You’ve treated me like a gentleman, pard, and I ain’t the man to hurt your feelings intentional.  I think you’re white.  I think you’re a square man, pard.  I like you, and I’ll lick any man that don’t.  I’ll lick him till he can’t tell himself from a last year’s corpse!  Put it there!” [Another fraternal hand-shake—­and exit.]

The obsequies were all that “the boys” could desire.  Such a marvel of funeral pomp had never been seen in Virginia.  The plumed hearse, the dirge-breathing brass bands, the closed marts of business, the flags drooping at half mast, the long, plodding procession of uniformed secret societies, military battalions and fire companies, draped engines, carriages of officials, and citizens in vehicles and on foot, attracted multitudes of spectators to the sidewalks, roofs and windows; and for years afterward, the degree of grandeur attained by any civic display in Virginia was determined by comparison with Buck Fanshaw’s funeral.

Scotty Briggs, as a pall-bearer and a mourner, occupied a prominent place at the funeral, and when the sermon was finished and the last sentence of the prayer for the dead man’s soul ascended, he responded, in a low voice, but with feelings: 

“Amen.  No Irish need apply.”

As the bulk of the response was without apparent relevancy, it was probably nothing more than a humble tribute to the memory of the friend that was gone; for, as Scotty had once said, it was “his word.”

Scotty Briggs, in after days, achieved the distinction of becoming the only convert to religion that was ever gathered from the Virginia roughs; and it transpired that the man who had it in him to espouse the quarrel of the weak out of inborn nobility of spirit was no mean timber whereof to construct a Christian.  The making him one did not warp his generosity or diminish his courage; on the contrary it gave intelligent direction to the one and a broader field to the other.

If his Sunday-school class progressed faster than the other classes, was it matter for wonder?  I think not.  He talked to his pioneer small-fry in a language they understood!  It was my large privilege, a month before he died, to hear him tell the beautiful story of Joseph and his brethren to his class “without looking at the book.”  I leave it to the reader to fancy what it was like, as it fell, riddled with slang, from the lips of that grave, earnest teacher, and was listened to by his little learners with a consuming interest that showed that they were as unconscious as he was that any violence was being done to the sacred proprieties!