"
And off we went like the wind. He drove very boldly and at the same
time very cautiously, avoiding the numerous stumps, stones and ruts
with admirable dexterity. I began to suspect that the boy was not a
Virginia boy. When at length we reached the smooth stage-road I began
to question him: "Are you the general's son?"
"No, sir: that was my father at the station"--he of the jug.
"How do you like this country?"
My habit from childhood had been to take the life of any stranger who
had the audacity to tell me that he did not like any and every part
of Virginia, but of late I have contented myself with slicing off his
ears.
"The longer I live here the better I like it."
Smart boy! he had saved his auditory organs. But as yet his accent had
not been sufficiently defined to enable me to tell his nationality.
"You are not from England, are you?"
"No, indeed, sir--from New Hampshire."
The appalling truth was out. First, a Yankee uniform; second, an
Englishman; third, a whole raft, a "hull lot," of New Hampshire
Yankees; and yet they call this Virginia!
No wonder I was silent. Night had fallen, we had entered a dark
forest, there was an unreconstructed penknife (somehow or other,
I always forget my bowie-knife and Derringers now-a-days) recently
sharpened in my pocket.
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