"You may drink to the devil if you like," says Major Colfax, glaring at
Tom.

"Come, Davy," said Colonel Clark, when he had taken half the gourd,
"let's have the tale. I'll warrant you're behind this."

I flushed again, and began by stammering. For I had a great fear that
Major Colfax's temper would fly into bits when he heard it.

"Well, sir," said I, "I was grinding corn at the mill when the man came.
I thought him a smooth-mannered person, and he did not give his business.
He was just for wheedling me. 'And was this McChesney's mill?' said he.
'Ay,' said I. 'Thomas McChesney?' 'Ay,' said I. Then he was all for
praise of Thomas McChesney. 'Where is he?' said he. 'He is at the far
pasture,' said I,' and may be looked for any moment.' Whereupon he sits
down and tries to worm out of me the business of the mill, the yield of
the land. After that he begins to talk about the great people he knows,
Sevier and Shelby and Robertson and Boone and the like. Ay, and his
intimates, the Randolphs and the Popes and the Colfaxes in Virginia.
'Twas then I asked him if he knew Colonel Campbell of Abingdon."

"And what deviltry was that?" demanded the Colonel, as he dipped himself
more of the toddy.

"I'll come to it, sir. Yes, Colonel Campbell was his intimate, and
ranted if he did not tarry a week with him at Abingdon on his journeys.
After that he follows me to the cabin, and sees Polly Ann and Tom and the
children on the floor poking a 'possum. 'Ah,' says he, in his softest
voice, 'a pleasant family scene. And this is Mr. McChesney?' 'I'm your
man,' says Tom. Then he praised the mill site and the land all over