Mr. M’Fadden must be excused until he has seen the place in which to deposit his preacher and other property.

“Ah, ha!"-mine host cants his ear, enquiringly;—­“want grits for ’em, I s’pose?” he returns, and his round fat face glows with satisfaction.  “Can suit you to a shavin’.”

“That’s right, Colonel; I know’d ye could,” ejaculates the other.  Mine host is much elated at hearing his title appended.  Colonel Frank Jones-such is mine host’s name—­never fought but one duel, and that was the time when, being a delegate to the southern blowing-up convention, lately holden in the secession city of Charleston, he entered his name on the register of the Charleston Hotel—­“Colonel Frank Jones, Esq., of the South Carolina Dragoons;” beneath which an impertinent wag scrawled-"Corporal James Henry Williamson M’Donal Cudgo, Esq. of the same regiment.”  Colonel Frank Jones, Esq. took this very gross insult in the highest kind of dudgeon, and forthwith challenged the impertinent wag to settle the matter as became gentlemen.  The duel, however, ended quite as harmlessly as the blowing-up convention of which Mr. Colonel Frank Jones was a delegate, the seconds-thoughtless wretches-having forgot to put bullets in the weapons.

Our readers must excuse us for digressing a little.  Mine host rubs his hands, draws his mouth into a dozen different puckers, and then cries out at the top of his voice, “Ho, boys, ho!”

Three or four half-clad negroes come scampering into the room, ready to answer the summons.  “Take charge o’ this property o’ my friend’s here.  Get ’em a good tuck out o’ grits.”

“Can grind ’em themselves,” interrupts M’Fadden, quickly.  “About the price, Colonel?”

“That’s all straight,” spreading his hands with an accompanying nod of satisfaction:  “’commodate ye with a first-rate lock-up and the grits at seven-pence a day.”

“No objection.”  Mr. M’Fadden is entirely satisfied.  The waiters take the gentleman’s property in charge, and conduct it to a small building, an appropriate habitation of hens and pigs.  It was of logs, rough hewn, without chinking; without floor to keep Mr. M’Fadden’s property from the ground, damp and cold.  Unsuited as it is to the reception of human beings, many planters of great opulence have none better for their plantation people.  It is about ten feet high, seven broad, and eleven long.

“Have a dandy time on’t in here to-night,” says Mr. M’Fadden, addressing himself to Harry, as one of the waiters unlocks the door and ushers the human property into its dreary abode.  Mr. M’Fadden will step inside, to take a bird’s-eye view of the security of the place.  He entertains some doubts about the faith of his preacher, however, and has half an inclination to turn round as he is about making his exit.  He will.  Approaches Harry a second time; he feels his pockets carefully, and suggests that he has some mischievous weapon of liberty stowed away somewhere.  He presses and