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A crabbed old man.
I well remember, too, when within ten miles of the plague-stricken city, that I astonished every one whom I met, in walking along the road, by a long and hearty roar of laughter, in which, without interruption, I continued to indulge for nearly an hour.
I came up to a gate.
A crabbed looking old man was working inside of it in a sort of kitchen garden.
I asked him if I might come in and get a drink of water at the well.
“ Where y‘ goina to?”
he snapped.
“
Augusta.”
“ Must be a d — d fool,” he jerked out, looking at me savagely.
“Do n't ye know the yaller fever's there?”
“ Yes, old man, I do.”
“ You'll die ev you-go-thar.”
“ I wo n't live to be uncivil then,” I said.
“ Hum!”
he grunted.
“ What o'clock is it?”
“‘bout twelve.”
“ Can't you sell me something to eat, or get me a dinner?”
“No,” he snapped, talking so rapidly that his words often ran together; “old-woman's-busy; we-do n't-get dinners for Tom-Dick-en-Harry.
Need n't ask us.”
“Curse your insolence!”
I said.
“I asked you a civil question.
I want no favors.
I'll pay you for all I get. May I have a drink?”
“Guess-you-kin-get it,” he said, looking as if he meant to fight; but, seeing that I was angry in earnest, he merely added--“there's-the-well.”
