"
"But, John, that was a long time ago, and the old man is dead, and here
we are alive. But he made whisky sixty years ago. What about it?"
"The brother of the admiral lives in Memphis," the Major continued,
"and the other day he sent me a bottle of that whisky, run through a log
before you were born."
Gid's mouth flew open and his eyes stuck out. "John," he said, and the
restraint he put upon his voice rippled it, "John, don't tamper with the
affections of an old and infirm man. Drive me off the bayou plantation,
compel me to acknowledge and to feel that I am a hypercrite and a liar,
but don't whet a sentiment and then cut my throat with it. Be merciful
unto a sinner who worships the past."
He sat there looking upward, a figure of distress, fearing the arrival
of despair. The Major laughed at him. "Don't knock me down with a stick
of spice-wood, John."
The Major went to a sideboard, took therefrom a quaint bottle and two
thin glasses, and placing them upon a round table, bowed to the bottle
and said: "Dew of an ancient mountain, your servant, sir." And old Gid,
with his mouth solemnly set, but with his eyes still bulging, arose,
folded his arms, bowed with deep reverence, and thus paid his respects:
"Sunshine, gathered from the slopes of long ago, your slave."
Mrs. Cranceford stepped in to look for something, and the play
improvised by these two old boys was broken short off.
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