“It will be a dull day when you give place to any one else, Major,” returned the Governor, politely. “And a far off one I trust,” added Mrs. Ambler, with her plaintive smile. “Well, maybe so,” responded the Major, settling himself in an easy chair beside the fire. “Any way, you can't blame an old man for fighting for his own, as my friend Harry Smith put it when he lost his leg in the War of 1812. 'By God, it belongs to me,' he roared to the surgeon, 'and if it comes off, I'll take it off myself, sir.' It took six men to hold him, and when it was over all he said was, 'Well, gentlemen, you mustn't blame a man for fighting for his own.' Ah, he was a sad scamp, was Harry, a sad scamp. He used to say that he didn't know whether he preferred a battle or a dinner, but he reckoned a battle was better for the blood. And to think that he died in his bed at last like any Christian.” “That reminds me of Dick Wythe, who never needed any tonic but a fight,” returned the Governor, thoughtfully. “You remember Dick, don't you, Major?--a hard drinker, poor fellow, but handsome enough to have stepped out of Homer. I've been sitting by him at the post-office on a spring day, and seen him get up and slap a passer-by on the face as coolly as he'd take his toddy. Of course the man would slap back again, and when it was over Dick would make his politest bow, and say pleasantly, 'Thank you, sir, I felt a touch of the gout.' He told me once that if it was only a twinge, he chose a man of his own size; but if it was a positive wrench, he struck out at the biggest he could find.” The Major leaned back, laughing. “That was Dick, sir, that was Dick!” he exclaimed, “and it was his father before him. Why, I've had my own blows with Taylor Wythe in his day, and never a hard word afterward, never a word.” Then his face clouded. “I saw Dick's brother Tom in town this morning,” he added. “A sneaking fellow, who hasn't the spirit in his whole body that was in his father's little finger. Why, what do you suppose he had the impudence to tell me, sir? Some one had asked him, he said, what he should do if Virginia went to war, and he had answered that he'd stay at home and build an asylum for the fools that brought it on.” He turned his indignant face upon Mrs. Ambler, and she put in a modest word of sympathy. “You mustn't judge Tom by his jests, sir,” rejoined the Governor, persuasively. “His wit takes with the town folks, you know, and I hear that he's becoming famous as a post-office orator.” “There it is, sir, there it is,” retorted the Major. “I've always said that the post-offices were the ruin of this country--and that proves my words. Why, if there were no post-offices, there'd be fewer newspapers; and if there were fewer newspapers, there wouldn't be the _Richmond Whig_.” The Governor's glance wandered to his writing table.