worded legislative document; that wholesale abuse of the State Attorney and his political motives had not the slightest connection with the legal question raised—­it was, nevertheless, generally accepted that the losing party would have been only too glad to have the Colonel on their side.  And Colonel Starbottle knew this, as, perspiring, florid, and panting, he rebuttoned the lower buttons of his blue frock-coat, which had become loosed in an oratorical spasm, and readjusted his old-fashioned, spotless shirt frill above it as he strutted from the court-room amidst the handshakings and acclamations of his friends.

And here an unprecedented thing occurred.  The Colonel absolutely declined spirituous refreshment at the neighboring Palmetto Saloon, and declared his intention of proceeding directly to his office in the adjoining square.  Nevertheless, the Colonel quitted the building alone, and apparently unarmed, except for his faithful gold-headed stick, which hung as usual from his forearm.  The crowd gazed after him with undisguised admiration of this new evidence of his pluck.  It was remembered also that a mysterious note had been handed to him at the conclusion of his speech,—­evidently a challenge from the State Attorney.  It was quite plain that the Colonel—­a practiced duelist—­was hastening home to answer it.

But herein they were wrong.  The note was in a female hand, and simply requested the Colonel to accord an interview with the writer at the Colonel’s office as soon as he left the court.  But it was an engagement that the Colonel—­as devoted to the fair sex as he was to the “code”—­was no less prompt in accepting.  He flicked away the dust from his spotless white trousers and varnished boots with his handkerchief, and settled his black cravat under his Byron collar as he neared his office.  He was surprised, however, on opening the door of his private office, to find his visitor already there; he was still more startled to find her somewhat past middle age and plainly attired.  But the Colonel was brought up in a school of Southern politeness, already antique in the republic, and his bow of courtesy belonged to the epoch of his shirt frill and strapped trousers.  No one could have detected his disappointment in his manner, albeit his sentences were short and incomplete.  But the Colonel’s colloquial speech was apt to be fragmentary incoherencies of his larger oratorical utterances.

“A thousand pardons—­for—­er—­having kept a lady waiting—­er!  But—­er—­congratulations of friends—­and—­er—­courtesy due to them—­er—­interfered with—­though perhaps only heightened—­by procrastination—­the pleasure of—­ha!” And the Colonel completed his sentence with a gallant wave of his fat but white and well-kept hand.

“Yes!  I came to see you along o’ that speech of yours.  I was in court.  When I heard you gettin’ it off on that jury, I says to myself, ’That’s the kind o’ lawyer I want.  A man that’s flowery and convincin’!  Just the man to take up our case.”