In the evening, in despite of a threatening sky, Arthur and Beverly
mounted their horses and galloped toward Richmond. As they approached
the city, the rain fell heavily and they sought shelter at a wayside
tavern. Observing the public room to be full, they passed into a private
parlor and ordered some slight refreshment. In the adjoining tap-room
they could hear the voices of excited men, discussing some topic of
absorbing interest. Their anticipations were realized, for they quickly
gathered from the tenor of the disjointed conversation that the
bombardment of Fort Sumter had begun.

"I'll bet my pile," said a rough voice, "that the gridiron bunting won't
float another day in South Carolina."

"I'll go you halves on that, hoss, and you and I won't grow greyer nor
we be, before Old Virginny says 'me too.'"

"Seth Rawbon, you'd better be packing your traps for Massachusetts.
She'll want you afore long."

"Boys," ejaculated the last-mentioned personage, with an oath, "I left
off being a Massachusetts man twelve years ago. I'm with _you_, and you
know it. Let's drink. Boys, here's to spunky little South Carolina; may
she go in and win! Stranger, what'll you drink?"

"I will not drink," replied a clear, manly voice, which had been silent
till then.

"And why will you not drink?" rejoined the other, mocking the dignified
and determined tone in which the invitation was refused.