And Todd as usual was his able assistant.  All the darky’s training came into play when his master was giving a dinner:  what Madeira to decant, and what to leave in its jacket of dust, with its waistcoat of a label unlaundered for half a century; the temperature of the claret; the exact angle at which the Burgundy must be tilted and when it was to be opened—­and how—­especially the “how”—­the disturbing of a single grain of sediment being a capital offence; the final brandies, particularly that old Peach Brandy hidden in Tom Coston’s father’s cellar during the war of 1812, and sent to that gentleman as an especial “mark of my appreciation to my dear friend and kinsman, St. George Wilmot Temple,” etc., etc.—­all this Todd knew to his finger ends.

For with St. George to dine meant something more than the mere satisfying of one’s hunger.  To dine meant to get your elbows next to your dearest friend—­half a dozen or more of your dearest friends, if possible—­to look into their faces, hear them talk, regale them with the best your purse afforded, and last and best of all to open for them your rarest wines—­wines bred in the open, amid tender, clustering leaves; wines mellowed by a thousand sunbeams; nurtured, cared for, and put tenderly to sleep, only to awake years thereafter to warm the hearts and cheer the souls of those who honored them with their respect and never degraded them with their debauchery.

As for the dishes themselves—­here St. George with Jemima’s help was pastmaster:  dishes sizzling hot; dishes warm, and dishes stone cold.  And their several arrivals and departures, accompanied by their several staffs:  the soup as an advance guard—­of gumbo or clams—­or both if you chose; then a sheepshead caught off Cobb’s Island the day before, just arrived by the day boat, with potatoes that would melt in your mouth—­in gray jackets these; then soft-shell crabs—­big, crisp fellows, with fixed bayonets of legs, and orderlies of cucumber—­the first served on a huge silver platter with the coat-of-arms of the Temples cut in the centre of the rim and the last on an old English cut-glass dish.  Then the woodcock and green peas—­and green corn—­their teeth in a broad grin; then an olio of pineapple, and a wonderful Cheshire cheese, just arrived in a late invoice—­and marvellous crackers—­and coffee—­and fruit (cantaloupes and peaches that would make your mouth water), then nuts, and last a few crusts of dry bread!  And here everything came to a halt and all the troops were sent back to the barracks—­(Aunt Jemima will do for the barracks).

With this there was to follow a change of base—­a most important change.  Everything eatable and drinkable and all the glasses and dishes were to be lifted from the table—­one half at a time—­the cloth rolled back and whisked away and the polished mahogany laid bare; the silver coasters posted in advantageous positions, and in was to rattle the light artillery:—­Black Warrior of 1810—­Port of 1815—­a Royal Brown Sherry that nobody knew anything about, and had no desire to, so fragrant was it.  Last of all the notched finger-bowls in which to cool the delicate, pipe-stem glasses; and then, and only then, did the real dinner begin.