"All right!" he says, as the irons are locked, and he marches his property up to the tavern, where he meets mine host-a short, fat man, with a very red and good-natured face, who always dresses in brown clothes, smiles, and has an extra laugh for 'lection days-who stands his consequential proportions in the entrance to the lower veranda, and is receiving his customers with the blandest smiles. "I thinks a right smart heap on ye, or I would'nt a' 'gin ye that gal for a mate," continues M'Fadden, walking along, looking at Harry earnestly, and, with an air of self-congratulation, ejecting a quantity of tobacco-juice from his capacious mouth. "Mr. M'Fadden is very, very welcome;" so says mine host, who would have him take a social glass with his own dear self. Mr. M'Fadden must be excused until he has seen the place in which to deposit his preacher and other property. "Ah, ha!"-mine host cants his ear, enquiringly;--"want grits for 'em, I s'pose?" he returns, and his round fat face glows with satisfaction. "Can suit you to a shavin'." "That's right, Colonel; I know'd ye could," ejaculates the other. Mine host is much elated at hearing his title appended. Colonel Frank Jones-such is mine host's name--never fought but one duel, and that was the time when, being a delegate to the southern blowing-up convention, lately holden in the secession city of Charleston, he entered his name on the register of the Charleston Hotel--"Colonel Frank Jones, Esq., of the South Carolina Dragoons;" beneath which an impertinent wag scrawled-"Corporal James Henry Williamson M'Donal Cudgo, Esq. of the same regiment." Colonel Frank Jones, Esq. took this very gross insult in the highest kind of dudgeon, and forthwith challenged the impertinent wag to settle the matter as became gentlemen. The duel, however, ended quite as harmlessly as the blowing-up convention of which Mr. Colonel Frank Jones was a delegate, the seconds-thoughtless wretches-having forgot to put bullets in the weapons. Our readers must excuse us for digressing a little. Mine host rubs his hands, draws his mouth into a dozen different puckers, and then cries out at the top of his voice, "Ho, boys, ho!" Three or four half-clad negroes come scampering into the room, ready to answer the summons. "Take charge o' this property o' my friend's here. Get 'em a good tuck out o' grits." "Can grind 'em themselves," interrupts M'Fadden, quickly. "About the price, Colonel?" "That's all straight," spreading his hands with an accompanying nod of satisfaction: "'commodate ye with a first-rate lock-up and the grits at seven-pence a day."