It was a cold raw day in March, 1874.

Colonel Culpepper was sitting in the office of Ward and Barclay over the Exchange National Bank waiting for the junior member of the firm to come in; the senior member of the firm, who had just brought up an arm load of green hickory and dry hackberry stove wood, was standing beside the box-shaped stove, abstractedly brushing the sawdust and wormwood from his sleeves and coat front.

The colonel was whistling and whittling, and the general kept on brushing after the last speck of dust had gone from his shiny coat.

He walked to the window and stared into the ugly brown street.
Two or three minutes passed, and Colonel Culpepper, anxious for the society of his kind, spoke.

"Well, General, what's the trouble ?" "Nothing in particular, Martin.