I held it to the light and learned, to my disappointment, that business
of enormous importance to the C. & W. A. L. R. R. might preclude the
possibility of the colonel's leaving his office until late. If such
a calamity overtook him, would I forgive him and take possession of
his house and cellar and make myself as comfortable as I could with
my best friend away? This postscript followed:--

"Open the new Madeira; Chad has the key."

Chad wreaked his vengeance upon the absconding terrapin by plunging
him, with all his sins upon him, headlong into the boiling pot, and
half an hour later was engaged at a side table in removing, with the
help of an iron fork, the upper shell of the steaming vagabond, for
my special comfort and sustenance.

"Tar'pin jes like a crab, Major, on'y got mo' meat to 'em. But you got
to know 'em fust to eat 'em. Now dis yer shell is de hot plate, an'
ye do all yo' eatin' right inside it," said Chad, dropping a spoonful
of butter, the juice of a lemon, and a pinch of salt into the impromptu
dish.

"Now, Major, take yo' fork an' pick out all dat black meat an' dip it
in de sauce, an' wid ebery mou'ful take one o' dem little yaller eggs.
Dat's de way _we_ eat tar'pin. Dis yer stewin' him up in pote
wine is scand'lous. Can't taste nuffin' but de wine. But dat's
_tar'pin._"

I followed Chad's directions to the word, picking the terrapin as I
would a crab and smothering the dainty bits in the hot sauce, until
only two empty shells and a heap of little bones were left to tell the