"I was a little upset, over in Savannah," admitted the major. "Those
fellows must have gotten me to swallow over a gallon of their infernal
brew--and it goes down like silk, too. Listen at me: don't you ever
let 'em make you drink a gallon of that punch, Sally Ruth."

"I've seen its effects before. Go home and sleep it off," said Miss
Sally Ruth, not unkindly. "If you came over to warn me about filling
up on Artillery Punch, your duty's done--I've never been entertained
by the Chatham Artillery, and I don't ever expect to be. I suppose it
was intended for you to be a born goose, Appleby, so it'd be a waste
of time for me to fuss with you about it. Go on home, now, do, and let
Cæsar put you to bed. Tell him to tie a wet rag about your head and to
keep it wet. That'll help to cool you off."

"Sally Ruth," said the major, laying his hand upon his heart and
trying desperately to focus her with an eye that would waver in spite
of him, "Sally Ruth, _somebody's_ got to do something for you, and it
might as well be me. My God, Sally Ruth, _you're settin' like
clabber!_ It's a shame; it's a cryin' shame, for you're a fine woman.
I don't mean to scare or flutter you, Sally Ruth,--no gentleman ought
to scare or flutter a lady--but I'm offerin' you my hand and heart;
here's my bosom for you to lean on."

"That Savannah brew is worse even than I thought--it's run the man
stark crazy," said Miss Sally Ruth, viewing him with growing concern.

"Me crazy! Why, I'm askin' you," said the major with awful dignity,
"I'm askin' you to marry me!"