"Yes, sir," said David. "Wa'al, when we went into the eatin' room the table was full, mostly young folks, chatterin' an' laughin'. Price int'duced me to his wife, an' I set down by him at the other end of the table. The' wa'n't nothin' wuth mentionin'; nobody paid any attention to me 'cept now an' then a word from Price, an' I wa'n't fer talkin' anyway--I c'd have eat a raw dog. After breakfust, as they called it, Price an' I went out onto the verandy an' had some coffee, an' smoked an' talked fer an hour or so, an' then he got up an' excused himself to write a letter. 'You may like to look at the papers awhile,' he says. 'I've ordered the hosses at five, an' if you like I'll show you 'round a little.' "'Won't your wife be wantin' 'em?' I says. "'No, I guess she'll git along,' he says, kind o' smilin'. "'All right,' I says, 'don't mind me.' An' so at five up come the hosses an' the two fellers in uniform an' all. I was lookin' the hosses over when Price come out. 'Wa'al, what do you think of 'em?' he says. "'Likely pair,' I says, goin' over an' examinin' the nigh one's feet an' legs. 'Sore forr'ed?' I says, lookin' up at the driver. "'A trifle, sir,' he says, touchin' his hat. "'What's that?' says Price, comin' up an' examinin' the critter's face an' head. 'I don't see anythin' the matter with his forehead,' he says. I looked up an' give the driver a wink," said David with a chuckle, "an' he give kind of a chokin' gasp, but in a second was lookin' as solemn as ever. "I can't tell ye jest where we went," the narrator proceeded, "but anyway it was where all the nabobs turned out, an' I seen more style an' git-up in them two hours 'n I ever see in my life, I reckon. The' didn't appear to be no one we run across that, accordin' to Price's tell, was wuth under five million, though we may 'a' passed one without his noticin'; an' the' was a good many that run to fifteen an' twenty an' over, an' most on 'em, it appeared, was f'm New York. Wa'al, fin'ly we got back to the house a little 'fore seven. On the way back Price says, 'The' are goin' to be three four people to dinner to-night in a quiet way, an' the' ain't no reason why you shouldn't stay dressed jest as you are, but if you would feel like puttin' on evenin' clo'es (that's what he called 'em), why I've got an extry suit that'll fit ye to a "tee,"' he says. "'No,' I says, 'I guess I better not. I reckon I'd better git my grip an' go to the hotel. I sh'd be ruther bashful to wear your swallertail, an' all them folks'll be strangers,' I says. But he insisted on't that I sh'd come to dinner anyway, an' fin'ly I gin in, an' thinkin' I might 's well go the hull hog, I allowed I'd wear his clo'es; 'but if I do anythin' or say anythin' 't you don't like,' says I, 'don't say I didn't warn ye.' What would you 'a' done?" Mr. Harum asked. "Worn the clothes without the slightest hesitation," replied John. "Nobody gave your costume a thought."