In the excited state of the public mind it required no ringing of the court-house bell to convene the people; those down street walked up, and those across the square came over, and all gathered gradually at the Eagle hotel, and nearly all were present by the time Colonel Jones alighted. He had a pair of dark green specks on, his right hand in a sling, with brown paper bound round his wrist; his left hand held the bridle, and the forefinger of it wrapped with a linen rag “with care.” One of his ears was covered with a muslin scrap, that looked much like the countrywomen’s plan of covering their butter when coming to market: his face was clawed all over, as if he had had it raked by a cat held fast by the tail; his head was unshorn, it being “too delicate an affair,” as * * * said about his wife’s character. His complexion suggested an idea to a philosophical young man present, on which he wrote a treatise, dedicated to Arthur Tappan, proving that the negro was only a white well pummelled; and his general swelled appearance would induce a belief he had led the forlorn hope in the storming of a beehive. The Colonel’s manner did not exactly proclaim “the conquering hero,” but his affability was undiminished, and he addressed them with: “Happy to see you, gents; how are you all?” and then attempted to enter the tavern; but Buck Daily arrested him with: “Why, Colonel, I see you have had a skrimmage. How did you make it? You didn’t come out at the little _eend_ of the horn, did you?” “No, not exactly, I had a tight fit of it, though. You know Bill Patterson; he weighs one hundred and seventy-five pounds, has not an ounce of superfluous flesh, is as straight as an Indian, and as active as a wild-cat, and as quick as powder, and very much of a man, I assure you. Well, my word was out to lick him; so I hardly put up my horse before I found him at the court-house door, and, to give him a white man’s chance, I proposed alternatives to him. He said his daddy, long ago, told him never to give a _liebill_, and he was not good at running, so he thought he had best fight. By the time the word was fairly out, I hauled off, and took him in the burr of the ear that raised a singing in his head, that made him think he was in Mosquitoe town. At it we went, like killing snakes, so good a man, so good a boy; we had it round and round, and about and about, as dead a yoke as ever pulled at a log-chain. Judge Mitchell was on the bench, and as soon as the cry of “fight” was raised, the bar and jury ran off and left him. He shouted, ‘I command the peace,’ within the court-house, and then ran out to see the fight, and cried out, ‘I can’t prevent you!’ ‘fair fight!’ ‘stand back!’ and he caught parson Benefield by the collar of the coat, who, he thought, was about to interfere, and slung him on his back at least fifteen feet.