a tall, rawboned, heavy-jawed fellow stepped into the ring, and,
taking him by the collar, pulled him away, saying: 'Let 'em be--it's a
fair fight; d---- yer pictur--let 'em alone.'

'Take thet! you whelp,' said the other, planting a heavy blow between
the intruder's eyes. Blow followed blow; they clenched; went down; rose
up; fought on--at one end of the ring the canines, at the other the
humans; while the rest looked on, shouting, 'Let 'er rip! Go in, Wade!
Hit 'im agin! Smash his mug! Pluck the grizzly! Hurrah fur Smith! Drown
his peepers! Never say die! Go in agin!' till the blood flowed, and dogs
and men rolled over on the ground together.

Disgusted with this exhibition of nineteenth-century civilization, I
turned and walked away. As I did so, I noticed, following me at a short
distance, a well-dressed man of about thirty-five. He wore a slouched
hat, a gray coat and lower garments, and enormous high-top boots, to one
of which was affixed a brass spur. Over his shoulder, holding the two
ends in his hands, he carried a strong, flexible whip, silver mounted,
and polished like patent leather. He was about six feet high, stoutly
built, with a heavy, inexpressive face, and a clear, sharp gray eye. One
glance satisfied me that he was the negro trader.

As he approached he held out his hand in a free, hearty way, saying:
'Cunnel, good evenin'.'

'Good evenin',' I replied, intentionally adopting his accent; 'but yer
wrong, stranger; I'm nary cunnel.'

'Well, Major, then?'

'No, Gin'ral; not even a sargint.'

'Then ye're _Squire_----,' and he hesitated for me to fill up the blank.

'No; not even Squire----,' I added, laughing. 'I've nary title; I'm
plain _Mister_ Kirke; nothin' else.'

'Well, _Mister_ Kirke, ye're the fust man I've met in the hull Suthern
country who wus jest nobody at all; and drot me ef I doan't like ye
for't. Ev'ry d----d little upstart, now-a-days, has a handle ter his
name--they all b'long ter the nobility, ha! ha!' and he again brought
his hand down upon mine with a concussion that made the woods ring.

'Come,' he added; 'let's take a drink.'

'Glad ter drink with ye, stranger; but I karn't go Tom's sperrets--it's
hard ter take.'

'That's a fact, but I keeps the raal stuff. That's the pizen fur ye;' he
replied, holding up a small willow flask, and starting toward the bar.
Entering a cloud of tobacco smoke, and groping our way over groups of
drunken chivalry, who lay 'loosely around,' w