He was just beginning to thank me for this when we were suddenly interrupted.
We were sitting some paces from the room where landlord Sanderson kept his bar, so that we heard only occasionally the sound of loud talk which came through the windows.

But now came footsteps and confused words in voices, one of which I seemed to know.

There staggered through the door a friend of mine, Harry Singleton, a young planter of our neighborhood, who had not taken my father's advice, but continued to divide his favor between farming, hunting and drinking.

He stood there leaning against the wall, his face more flushed than one likes to see a friend's face before midday.
"Hullo, ol' fel," he croaked at me.

"Hurrah for C'fedrate States of America!" "Very well," I said to him, "suppose we do hurrah for the Confederate States of America.