"Sir?"

"Hell! I say don't behave like a servant to me."

"I _am_ a servant, sir."

"You're not mine."

"Yes, sir, I am. Will you wear this coat this evening, sir?"

"God knows," said the young fellow, sitting down and gazing about
at the melancholy poverty of the place. . . . "Is there any of
that corn whisky?"

"No, sir."

"Damn it, you said there was this morning!"

"No, sir, I didn't."

The man lied placidly; the master looked at him, then laughed.

"Poor old Burgess," he said aloud as though to himself; "there
wasn't a skinful in that bottle. Well, I can't get drunk, I can't
lie here and count from six to midnight and keep my sanity, I can't
smoke--you rascal, where's my cigar? And I certainly can't go out
anywhere because I haven't any money."

"You might take the air on the avenue, sir. Your clothes are in
order."