A Gentleman Vagabond and Some Others | Page 2

on Crab Island with more
than ordinary liberality. Like all new vigorous grafts on an old stock, he
not only blossomed out with extraordinary richness, but sucked the sap
of the primeval family tree quite dry in the process. In fact, it was
universally admitted that could the constant drain of his hospitality
have been brought clearly to the attention of the original proprietor of
the estate, its draft-power would have raised that distinguished military
gentleman out of his grave. "My dear friends," Major Slocomb would
say, when, after his wife's death, some new extravagance was
commented upon, "I felt I owed the additional slight expenditure to the
memory of that queen among women, suh--Major Talbot's widow."
He had espoused, too, with all the ardor of the new settler, the several
articles of political faith of his neighbors,--loyalty to the State, belief in
the justice and humanity of slavery and the omnipotent rights of
man,--white, of course,--and he had, strange to say, fallen into the
peculiar pronunciation of his Southern friends, dropping his final g's,
and slurring his r's, thus acquiring that soft cadence of speech which
makes their dialect so delicious.

As to his title of "Major," no one in or out of the county could tell
where it originated. He had belonged to no company of militia, neither
had he won his laurels on either side during the war; nor yet had the
shifting politics of his State ever honored him with a staff appointment
of like grade. When pressed, he would tell you confidentially that he
had really inherited the title from his wife, whose first husband, as was
well known, had earned and borne that military distinction; adding
tenderly, that she had been so long accustomed to the honor that he had
continued it after her death simply out of respect to her memory.
But the major was still interviewing Delmonico's flunky, oblivious of
everything but the purpose in view, when I touched his shoulder, and
extended my hand.
"God bless me! Not you? Well, by gravy! Here, now, colonel, you can
tell me where Jack Hardy lives. I've been for half an hour walkin' round
this garden lookin' for him. I lost the letter with the number in it, so I
came over here to Delmonico's--Jack dines here often, I know, 'cause
he told me so. I was at his quarters once myself, but 't was in the night.
I am completely bamboozled. Left home yesterday--brought up a
couple of thoroughbred dogs that the owner wouldn't trust with
anybody but me, and then, too, I wanted to see Jack."
I am not a colonel, of course, but promotions are easy with the major.
"Certainly; Jack lives right opposite. Give me your bag."
He refused, and rattled on, upbraiding me for not coming down to Crab
Island last spring with the "boys" when the ducks were flying,
punctuating his remarks here and there with his delight at seeing me
looking so well, his joy at being near enough to Jack to shake the dear
fellow by the hand, and the inexpressible ecstasy of being once more in
New York, the centre of fashion and wealth, "with mo' comfo't to the
square inch than any other spot on this terrestrial ball."
The "boys" referred to were members of a certain "Ducking Club"
situated within rifle-shot of the major's house on the island, of which
club Jack Hardy was president. They all delighted in the major's society,

really loving him for many qualities known only to his intimates.
Hardy, I knew, was not at home. This, however, never prevented his
colored servant, Jefferson, from being always ready at a moment's
notice to welcome the unexpected friend. In another instant I had rung
Hardy's bell,--third on right,--and Jefferson, in faultless evening attire,
was carrying the major's "carpet-bag" to the suite of apartments on the
third floor front.
Jefferson needs a word of comment. Although born and bred a slave, he
is the product of a newer and higher civilization. There is hardly a trace
of the old South left in him,--hardly a mark of the pit of slavery from
which he was digged. His speech is as faultless as his dress. He is clean,
close-shaven, immaculate, well-groomed, silent,--reminding me always
of a mahogany-colored Greek professor, even to his eye-glasses. He
keeps his rooms in admirable order, and his household accounts with
absolute accuracy; never spilled a drop of claret, mixed a warm cocktail,
or served a cold plate in his life; is devoted to Hardy, and so
punctiliously polite to his master's friends and guests that it is a
pleasure to have him serve you.
Strange to say, this punctilious politeness had never extended to the
major, and since an occurrence connected with this very bag, to be
related shortly, it