I could not pass in.

Of course my pride was up; for was I to defer to an untutored African on a point of pronunciation?
Classic shades of Harvard, forbid! Affecting scornful indifference, I tried to edge away, proposing to myself to enter the camp at some other point, where my elocution would be better appreciated.

Not a step could I stir.
"Halt!" shouted my gentleman again, still holding me at his bayonet's point, and I wincing and halting.
I explained to him the extreme absurdity of this proceeding, called his attention to the state of the weather, which, indeed, spoke for itself so loudly that we could hardly hear each other speak, and requested permission to withdraw.

The bayonet, with mute eloquence, refused the application.
There flashed into my mind, with more enjoyment in the retrospect than I had experienced at the time, an adventure on a lecturing tour in other years, when I had spent an hour in trying to scramble into a country tavern, after bed-time, on the coldest night of winter.

On that occasion I ultimately found myself stuck midway in the window, with my head in a temperature of 80 degrees, and my heels in a temperature of -10 degrees, with a heavy windowsash pinioning the small of my back.