"No, Colonel, none for me; smoke a cigar--got a pocketful."

"Smoke yo' own cigars, will you, and in the presence of a Virginian?
I don't believe you have got a drop of Irish blood left in yo' veins,
or you would take this pipe."

"Too strong for me," remonstrated Fitz.

"Throw that villainous device away, I say, Fitz, and surprise yo'
nostrils with a whiff of this. Virginia tobacco, suh,--raised at
Cartersville,--cured by my own servants. No? Well, you will, Major.
Here, try that; every breath of it is a nosegay," said the colonel,
turning to me.

"But, Colonel," continued Fitz, with a sly twinkle in his eye, "your
tobacco pays no tax. With a debt like ours it is the duty of every
good citizen to pay his share of it. Half the cost of this cigar goes
to the Government."

It was a red flag to the colonel, and he laid down his pipe and faced
Fitz squarely.

"Tax! On our own productions, suh! Raised on our own land! Are you
again forgettin' that you are an Irishman and becomin' one of these
money-makin' Yankees? Haven't we suffe'd enough--robbed of our
property, our lands confiscated, our slaves torn from us; nothin' left
but our honor and the shoes we stand in!"

[Illustration]