"Sir," said I, looking him full in the face, "before you shoot any more birds here, answer me a question. Who do you go for--the Administration, or the Opposition?" This was a very absurd way of beginning a conversation with a stranger; but I was in such a fury I scarce knew what I said. He gave me a stare, and then a smile, and nodding his head good-humouredly, replied, "Oh! for the Administration, to be sure!" "You do, sir!" I rejoined, shaking my fist at him. "Then, sir, let me tell you, sir, you belong to a scoundrelly party, and are a scoundrel yourself, sir: and so, sir, walk off my place, or I'll prosecute you for a trespass." "You insolent ragamuffin!" said he. _Ragamuffin!_ Was I sunk so low that a man trespassing on my own property could call me ragamuffin? "You poor, miserable shote!"-- So degraded that I could be called a pig? "You half-starved old sand-field Jersey kill-deer!"-- A Jersey kill-deer! "You vagabond! You beggar! You Dicky Dout!"-- I was struck dumb by the multitude and intensity of his epithets; and before I could recover speech, he shouldered his gun, snapped his fingers in my face, and whistling to his dog, walked off the ground. Before he had gone six steps, however, he turned round, gave me a hard look, and bursting into a laugh, exclaimed, tapping his forehead as he spoke,-- "Poor fellow! you're wrong in your upper story!" With that he resumed the path, and crossed over to the old church, where I lost sight of him. "Wrong in my upper story!" It was the very phrase which Tom Alderwood, my brother-in-law, had applied to me, and which had given me such mortal offence that I had never forgiven him, and had refused to be reconciled, even when, as my difficulties began to thicken about me, he came to offer me his assistance. "Wrong in my upper story!" I was so much confounded by the man's insolence, that I remained rooted to the spot until he had got out of sight; and then, not knowing what else to do, I returned home; when I had a visit from old Jim, who entered the apartment, and not knowing I had sold my horse, cried out, "Massa Sheppard, want money to shoe Julius Cesar 'morrow morning. Blacksmith swear no trust no more." "Go to the devil, you old rascal!" said I, in a rage. "Guess I will," said Jim, shaking his head: "follow hard after massa." That insinuation, which struck me as being highly appropriate, was all I got for supper; for it was Jim's way, when I offended him of an afternoon, to sneak off, taking Dinah with him, and thus leave me to shift for myself during the whole night as I could. There was never a more tyrannical old rascal than Jim Jumble. CHAPTER X. SHEPPARD LEE HAS AN EXTRAORDINARY DREAM, WHICH PROMISES TO BE MORE ADVANTAGEOUS THAN ANY OF HIS PREVIOUS ONES.