Then _he_ begun shakin’ hands all round. “Hurra for Squire Pettybone! hurra for the bank and the veto!” shouted some of the men—“Hurra for Ansley! down with the bank!” “Silence for Mr. Johnson’s speech!” “Hurra for Harrison!” “Hurra for the Vetos!” “Hurra for Jackson! I can lick any veto on the ground!” “Silence!” “Hurra for Ansley, no bank!” “Whar’s them vetos what’s agin Ansley—let me at ’em!” “Fight! fight! make a ring! make a ring!”—“Whoop!” hollered Bill Sweeny, “I’m the blossom—go it shirt-tail!” “Hit ’em Sweeny!”—“’Tention, Betallion!” ses I, but it want no use—they was at it rite in the middle and all round the edges, and I know’d the quicker I got out of that bilin’ the better for my wholsum. Thar they was, up and down, five or six in a heap, rollin’ over and crawlin’ out from under, bitin’ and scratchin’, gougin’ and strikin’, kickin’ and cussin’, head and heels all through other, none of ’em knowin’ who they hurt, or who hurt them—all the same whether they hit Ansley or veto, the blossom or Pettybone. The candidates was runnin’ about pullin’ and haulin’, and tryin’ ther best to stop it; but you couldn’t hear nothin’ but cussin’, and “bank” and “veto,” and “let me at ’em,” “I’m your boy,” “let go my eyes!” and sich talk for more’n twenty minits, and then they only kep ’em apart by holdin’ ’em off like dogs till they got dun pantin’. It want no use to try to get ’em into line agin. Some of ’em had got manuel exercise enuff, and was knocked and twisted out of all caracter, and it would be no use to try to put ’em through the manuel in that situation. Lots of ’em had ther eyes bunged up so they couldn’t “eyes right!” to save ’em, so I turned ’em over to ther captains, accordin’ to law, and ain’t sponsible for nothin’ that tuck place after I left. No more from Your frend, ’til deth, Jos. Jones. P.S.—Miss Mary most fainted when she heard the noos ’bout my hoss throwin’ me. Don’t you think that’s a good sign? LETTER III. Pineville, December 20th, 1842. Dear Sir, It seems our folks always is in a fuss. First it was movin’, then it was hog killin’, and now everything’s topsy-turvy makin’ reddy for Crismus. I do believe the niggers is scowered every spot from the garret to the dore-steps; and every time I comes into the hous they’s all hollerin’ out: “Thar, now, Mas Joe, jist look at your tracks!” and “Don’t you spit on the herth, for it’s just redened!” and “Don’t you spit agin the jam!” and sich foolery, jist as if people’s houses wasn’t made for ’em to live in.