MR. SOLOMON SMOOTH TAKES A FISH BREAKFAST.
“Well, Uncle Sam, I reckoned I’d seen enough of the kitchen arrangements; so I left them scraping the General—that is, getting off the injured outside, in order to see what really he was made of, and what he had beneath the undefinable cover. When in Washington, there’s nothing like going ahead; and if you can look a man into respect for you, so much the better. Dignitary or no dignitary won’t do; you must always profess to be a distinguished individual. Well, on the strength of the invitation extended by Jeff—to take a fish breakfast on the following morning, when it was expected the flounder would be done brown, I again repaired to the White House, and after pushing my way through all kinds of passages and doorways, found myself in a gorgeous sort of establishment.
“‘Your lookin for somethin, I take it?’ said a trim figure, whose face rather bordered on the brassy.
“’Well! I reckon I am. Can you tell a stray citizen where the General hangs out in the morning?’ I replied, as he confronted me and paused.
“‘Sartin!’ he rejoined, interrupting me, and at the same time looking very sociable, as if he wanted to have a talk on politics. Nevertheless, it was getting close upon the hour of breakfast; so he takes me by the arm, and stepping through a frickazeed passage up to a large door which opened into a ponderously furnished room, ’I’ll take your card, sir!’ continued he, with a low bow and a motion of the hand to sit down.
“Didn’t have a card at hand, but chalked down Mr. Solomon Smooth, from Cape Cod, on a piece of thick paper per, that suited all the purposes.