Nim Porter, who was seated in an elbow-chair, resting the back of his head against a window-sill at the opposite end of the bar-room and counterfeiting sleep, was now roused up to attend to the customers.
"My dear Mrs. Ferret--paragon of landladies," said Fog, "Pillar--yes, bolster of our cause--some drink! Dabbs owes a treat, and we have resolved that the libation shall be made under the eye of our own queen. Dabbs, say what the mixture shall be; I'm not particular--my throat is a turnpike traveled by all imaginable potations. A mint julep, Dabbs? gentlemen! Flan, a julep? Yes? A julep, a julep all round. Agreed to, nem. con. Mrs. Ferret, five juleps; charge Dabbs--Dabbs's treat."
Mrs. Ferret's anger against her spouse gradually faded under this accost; a slight glimpse of sunshine began to break over her visage as she addressed herself to the task of preparing the required compounds, and Nim Porter busied himself in picking sprigs of mint from a large bouquet of that invaluable plant, which flourished in native verdure over the rim of a two quart tumbler, in which it seemed to grow as in a flower-pot.
Ferret had retreated from the bar toward the door which looked upon the street; and Theodore Fog, who, as the truth must be spoken, was at this hour very considerably advanced toward his customary zenith of excitement, thrust his hands under the skirts of his striped gingham coatee, and strutted with the air of a prime minister in a farce, around the room.
"'Bid thy mistress, when my drink is ready, She strike upon the bell.'
Ferret--glorious turn out, Ferret. True Grits all alive. Pound that ice fine, Nim--no water, recollect. First-rate fellows, Ferret--go the whole--real Quods--diamonds."
"Hope you'll mend matters now, Mr. Fog, since you've got in," said Ferret. "I'm for giving every one a chance; wish you success."
"Of course you do, Ferret," replied Fog; "and so you would have wished Ag Flag success if he'd got in."
"Or Andy Grant, either," said Mrs. Ferret; "my husband's not partikler."
"You're right, Ferret--you're right!" interrupted Fog, "always go with the current--that's sound philosophy--that's my rule. Dabbs, isn't that metaphysics? Flan, don't you call that the true theory of the balance of power? Gentlemen, I submit it to you all."