There were a few days in the year, however, when Uncle Ben permitted the sanctity of his territory to be violated.  One was the seventh of December.  On such a day it was his habit to retire to the broken chair beside the sink (the chair to which he had clung for five-and-twenty years).  There he would sit, blinking, and carrying on the while an undercurrent of protests and rumblings, while Miss Virginia and other young ladies mixed and chopped and boiled and baked and gossiped.  But woe to the unfortunate Rosetta if she overstepped the bounds of respect!  Woe to Ned or Jackson or Tato, if they came an inch over the threshold from the hall beyond!  Even Aunt Easter stepped gingerly, though she was wont to affirm, when assisting Miss Jinny in her toilet, an absolute contempt for Ben’s commands.

“So Ben ordered you out, Mammy?” Virginia would say mischievously.

“Order me out!  Hugh! think I’se skeered o’ him, honey?  Reckon I’d frail ‘em good ef he cotched hole of me with his black hands.  Jes’ let him try to come upstairs once, honey, an’ see what I say to ’m.”

Nevertheless Ben had, on one never-to-be-forgotten occasion, ordered Mammy Easter out, and she had gone.  And now, as she was working the beat biscuits to be baked that evening, Uncle Ben’s eye rested on her with suspicion.

What mere man may write with any confidence of the delicacies which were prepared in Uncle’s kitchen that morning?  No need in those days of cooking schools.  What Southern lady, to the manner born, is not a cook from the cradle?  Even Ben noted with approval Miss Virginia’s scorn for pecks and pints, and grunted with satisfaction over the accurate pinches of spices and flavors which she used.  And he did Miss Eugenie the honor to eat one of her praleens.

That night came Captain Lige Brent, the figure of an eager and determined man swinging up the street, and pulling out his watch under every lamp-post.  And in his haste, in the darkness of a midblock, he ran into another solid body clad in high boots and an old army overcoat, beside a wood wagon.

“Howdy, Captain,” said he of the high boots.

“Well, I just thought as much,” was the energetic reply; “minute I seen the rig I knew Captain Grant was behind it.”

He held out a big hand, which Captain Grant clasped, just looking at his own with a smile.  The stranger was Captain Elijah Brent of the ‘Louisiana’.

“Now,” said Brent, “I’ll just bet a full cargo that you’re off to the Planters’ House, and smoke an El Sol with the boys.”

Mr. Grant nodded.  “You’re keen, Captain,” said he.

“I’ve got something here that’ll outlast an El Sol a whole day,” continued Captain Breast, tugging at his pocket and pulling out a six-inch cigar as black as the night.  “Just you try that.”

The Captain instantly struck a match on his boot and was puffing in a silent enjoyment which delighted his friend.