IX BRET harte's country. 283 



time, saying, "Fo' God, majah, I'm right down glad to 

 see you, sah." 



And the "Majah" was equally glad if wonderfully 

 surprised : "Tome, by God sah, where on earth did you 

 all come from, anyhow, sah?" 



Then I knew both were Kentuckians. ("Tome" is 

 Kentucky for Tom you know), and the shaking of hands 

 "was a plenty." 



The bell rang, the engine wheezed, breathed, snorted 

 and the train slowly moved. I jumped on the platform 

 of the rear car, while the friends, hand in hand, started 

 for a door over w T hich was a sign of six bold letters re- 

 splendent with red and yellow paint — "Saloon." 



Don't you think there was a toddy or two — or more 

 — that changed residence from the bottle to the mouths 

 of those old "Kentucky friends, sah." 



"I saw you looking at Major Joe Husband and Tom 

 Redmon on the platform back there," said the porter, a 

 bright colored boy, "do you know who they are?" 



"No, but I'd like to ; and moreover, I'd like to be with 

 them a few minutes right now," I answered, for visions 

 of whiskey toddies came to my mind, and I could almost 

 imagine the clinky sound of the spoon and the ice in the 

 glass as they slowly dissolved the sugar — at least, that's 

 the way they tell me it's done at the "Phcenix" in Lex- 

 ington — and somehow the warm but courteous and dig- 

 nified manner of those two old men marked them gentle- 

 men in any land. Gentlemen from a State of gentle- 

 men, no matter where you meet them, nor how long ago 

 they left the "Blue Grass," always gentlemen. God's sun 

 doesn't shine on a spot where there is more true chivalry 

 than in "old Kentucky." 



