Give me yo' bag, and put yo' umbrella in the corner.
"Here Fitz, Major; both of you come in here at once.
"Jedge Kerfoot, gentlemen, of the district co'te of Fairfax County.
Major Tom Yancey, of the army."
The civilities over, extra chairs were brought in, the door again
closed, and a council of war was held.
Major Yancey's first word--but I must describe Yancey. Imagine a short,
oily skinned, perpetually perspiring sort of man of forty, with a
decollete collar, a double-breasted waistcoat with glass buttons, and
skin-tight light trousers held down to a pair of high-heeled boots by
leather straps. The space between his waistband and his waistcoat was
made good by certain puckerings of his shirt anxious to escape the
thralldom of his suspenders. His paunch began and ended so suddenly
that he constantly reminded you of a man who had swallowed a toy
balloon.
Yancey's first word was an anxious inquiry as to whether he was late,
adding, "I came ez soon ez I could settle some business mattahs.
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