“Colonel Sprowle,” said he, “there’s ’meat and cakes and pies and pickles enough on that table to spread a hahnsome colation.  If you’d like to trade reasonable, I think perhaps I should be willin’ to take ’em off your hands.  There’s been a talk about our havin’ a celebration in the Parnassian Grove, and I think I could work in what your folks don’t want and make myself whole by chargin’ a small sum for tickets.  Broken meats, of course, a’n’t of the same valoo as fresh provisions; so I think you might be willin’ to trade reasonable.”

Mr. Peckham paused and rested on his proposal.  It would not, perhaps, have been very extraordinary, if Colonel Sprowle had entertained the proposition.  There is no telling beforehand how such things will strike people.  It didn’t happen to strike the Colonel favorably.  He had a little red-blooded manhood in him.

“Sell you them things to make a colation out of?” the Colonel replied.  “Walk up to that table, Mr. Peckham, and help yourself!  Fill your pockets; Mr. Peckham!  Fetch a basket, and our hired folks shall fill it full for ye!  Send a cart, if y’ like, ‘n’ carry off them leavin’s to make a celebration for your pupils with!  Only let me tell ye this:—­as sure ’s my name’s Hezekiah Spraowle, you ’ll be known through the taown ‘n’ through the caounty, from that day forrard, as the Principal of the Broken-Victuals Institoot!”

Even provincial human-nature sometimes has a touch of sublimity about it.  Mr. Silas Peckham had gone a little deeper than he meant, and come upon the “hard pan,” as the well-diggers call it, of the Colonel’s character, before he thought of it.  A militia-colonel standing on his sentiments is not to be despised.  That was shown pretty well in New England two or three generations ago.  There were a good many plain officers that talked about their “rigiment” and their “caounty” who knew very well how to say “Make ready!” “Take aim!” “Fire!”—­in the face of a line of grenadiers with bullets in their guns and bayonets on them.  And though a rustic uniform is not always unexceptionable in its cut and trimmings, yet there was many an ill-made coat in those old times that was good enough to be shown to the enemy’s front rank too often to be left on the field with a round hole in its left lapel that matched another going right through the brave heart of the plain country captain or major or colonel who was buried in it under the crimson turf.

Mr. Silas Peckham said little or nothing.  His sensibilities were not acute, but he perceived that he had made a miscalculation.  He hoped that there was no offence,—­thought it might have been mutooally agreeable, conclooded he would give up the idee of a colation, and backed himself out as if unwilling to expose the less guarded aspect of his person to the risk of accelerating impulses.

The Colonel shut the door,—­cast his eye on the toe of his right boot, as if it had had a strong temptation,—­looked at his watch, then round the room, and, going to a cupboard, swallowed a glass of deep-red brandy and water to compose his feelings.