orning and took my seat at a table occupied by two drummers, who were conversing with each other.
Tol'able lively night, remarked one of them, whom I shall call Smith.
Yes, said I.
Who on earth was that man, and what ever became of him?
It's Pete Bunker, replied the man. Don't you know Pete?
Why, the Bunkers are one of tther.
Did they try him for it?
Naw, was the reply, and the two men looked at me in wonder.
I reckon he left his gun in his room last night, said Smith.
It was pretty lucky.
But there hain't been any shootina in town lately.
When was the last shootina, Dave?
A year ago Christmas, answered Dave.
That Jake Haownstairs.
That was Christmas Eve, and they buried all four of 'em together.
Ther hain't been any shootina in town since then.
Yes, Jake was a mean cuss, said Smith, but I liked him first rate.
And we finished our buckwheat cakes in silence.
If Garrison were alive and could visit the South to-day and read Up from slavery,