yet I often thought him an idiot myself, and bad as my own poker was, I knew enough of the game to judge that his—when he wasn’t attending—fully justified such an outburst from his wife. Why her sally disturbed me I couldn’t have said; nor why, when it was greeted by a shrill guffaw from her “latest,” young Bolton Byrne, I itched to cuff the little bounder; nor why, when Hayley Delane, on whom banter always dawned slowly but certainly, at length gave forth his low rich gurgle of appreciation—why then, most of all, I wanted to blot the whole scene from my memory. Why?
Bareheaded I stood and watched L'Hereux and the Princesse de Conti get under weigh, until I could not bear to look at them longer and threw myself face downwards amid the heather.
"Faith, we're all beaten! First we were smashed into tatters, the King all but taken, and would have been had it not been for Sir Balthasar Nihel. We were beaten at every point of the compass, only we didn't know it! But now we've the town again, and sent General Browne off with a flea in his ear, and all the Croats and Hungarians, Pandours and Talpathians, hot foot after him. But oh, the poor souls that have gone to glory this night! Faith, promotion will be the order of the day now." And all this and much more he gave out, half crying, half laughing.
"I wish you good-morning, Mr. Creach."
I can see Colonel Ruscott still: a dapper handsome little fellow, rather too much of both, with a lustrous wave to his hair (or was it a wig?), and a dash too much of Cologne on too-fine cambric. He had been in the New York militia in his youth, had “gone out” with the great Seventh; and the Seventh, ever since, had been the source and centre of his being, as still, to some octogenarians, their University dinner is.
Ere long one came by who said he could teach all the folks to spell and read. A class was made up, and, strange to say, the five-year-old A-bra-ham stood at the head of it! His moth-er had taught him. She, al-so, had told him to be kind and good to all. There were sol-diers on the road from time to time, go-ing home from the war of 1812. One day the young child saw one near him when he held in his hand a string of fish he had just caught. He gave all his fish to the sol-dier.
It was not wise to be moved by such sympathetic feelings. The Grand Panjandrum could not be mistaken. It was definitely unwise to contradict him. It could even be dangerous. Jorgenson was in a nasty spot.
He tripped and fell against something that was soft, slimy and, like baker's dough, not at all resilient.
Such is, in brief, a glimpse of Mason’s military career as gleaned from scattered records. In 1845 Draper filed among his manuscripts a letter which states that “Capt. Mason resided where Daniel Steenrod’s house now is, two miles east of Wheeling, and kept a tavern there in 1780.” [12M] Another of his notes is to the effect that Mason lived on Wheeling Creek at the Narrows, and that in the spring of 1782 Indians stole some of his negroes. He and a man named Peter Stalnaker went in pursuit. The Indians, seeing the two
(You, Juno, watch dat crack!)
At least no further shot came from that particular
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