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An incident occurred in the United States Marshal's office at San Francisco, Cal., which is too good to be lost. It is told on good authority, and is, doubtless, substantially correct.

It is well known that there are several small models of ships in the Marshal's office, which have been ornamented with little secession flags about half the size of one's hand. They are made of paper, and colored with red and blue ink. One at the masthead of the largest ship bears the name of Jeff. Davis, and the others are the ordinary three-striped rag, recently adopted as the ensigns of the Southern Slave Confederacy. On account of the display of these flags, the only public place in the city, we believe, the Marshal's office is a sort of privileged quarters for Secessionists, and nothing is more common than to hear secession talk there. This has been particularly the case since the news of the breaking out of war.

The story goes, that while several gentlemen were sitting in the Marshal's office, attending to business, a big strapping fellow, all the way from South Carolina, with a revolver peeping out from under his coat-tail, strode into the place, with the air of a Tarquin, and exclaimed:

Well, at last, thank God! we've got these----d — d nutmeg-selling, mackerel-catching, cod-livered Yankee sons of----to come to taw. That's just what I've been wanting this many a day!--the nigger-thieving, psalm-singing abolitionists! We'll skin 'em out of their boots.

The braggart had scarcely finished his tirade, when one of the gentlemen, Captain----, of the ship----, who was observed to be getting nervous, suddenly jumped up, and taking his place in front of the fellow, and shaking his fists, replied:

Now, sir, I don't know you, and don't want to know you; but I suppose you designate me as one of those nutmeg-selling, mackerel-catching, cod-livered Yankee sons of----. I am captain of the ship----, and I want you to understand that I will not allow any man to use such language respecting me and my people in my presence. And if you don't recant, I'll whip you here and now. I see your pistol, but I don't care for it. You have insulted me, sir, and you shall answer for it.

The boaster, seeing the captain's determined bearing, and finding that he was in downright earnest, replied by saying that his remarks were general in their nature, and not by any means intended to apply to any particular person. Nothing was further from his purpose than to insult any person present, and particularly a stranger.

To this the irate captain retorted: “The language, sir, is an insult to the American name, and I for one will not stand it from any living man. No one but a traitor and a coward can talk in that way. Retract it! retract it!” and with this he commenced advancing upon the Secessionist, who began weakening in the knees, and finally wilted, while Tarpaulin raked the traitor's fore and aft without mercy.--Sacramento (Cal.) Bee, April 29.

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