have established us upon a footing of harmony
and friendship with the rough backwoodsmen amongst whom we had fallen.

"May I be shot like a Redskin, if that ain't Mister Richards from Old
Virginny, now of the Mississippi," suddenly exclaimed the same colossus
who had so recently had his hand upon Richards's shoulder, twisting, as
he spoke, his wild features into a sort of amicable grin. "May I never
taste another drop of rale Monongahela, if you sha'n't drink a pint with
Bob Snags the roadmaster!"

It was the very dignitary whom Richards had insulted with such imminent
risk to his shoulder-blade.

"A hurra for old Virginny!" shouted the master of the roads, biting, as
he spoke, into a piece of tobacco from that famous state. "Come,
mister--come, doctor!" continued the man, offering Richards with one
hand a roll of tobacco, with the other a pint glassful of whisky.

"Doctor!" repeated the whole assembly--"a doctor!"

A man possessing power over gin and whisky, and whose word is an
indisputable veto against even a _smaller_, is no unimportant personage
in that feverish neighbourhood. In this instance, Richards's doctorship
was of the double utility of delivering us from the threatened
pint-glasses, and of causing us to be considered as privileged
guests--no small advantage in a backwoods' tavern, occupied as the
headquarters of an electioneering party. Caesar, however, was the first
to derive a positive profit from the discovery. Bob left the room for a
minute or two, and we could hear the horse walking into the stable. When
the roadmaster returned, he had assumed a patronizing sort of look.

"Mister Richards!" said he confidentially, "Mister Richards! May I be
shot if you ain't continually a sensible man, with more rale blood in
your little finger than a horse could swim in. Yes, and I'll show you
that Bob Snags is your friend. I say, doctor, what countryman is your
horse?"

"A thorough-bred Virginian," replied Richards.

"The devil he is!" cried Bob. "Well, doctor, to prove to you that I'm
your friend, and that I ain't forgotten old times, I'll swop with you
without lookin' at him. May I be shot if I ain't reg'larly cheatin'
myself. Well, I'm uncommon glad to see you again. Bob Snags has no
reason to fear lookin' a rale gemman in the face. Come, lads, none of
yer jimmaky, and slings, and poorgun,{C} and suchlike dog's wash, but
ginu_ine_ Monongahela--that's the stuff. Hurra for Old Virginny! Well,
doctor, it's