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Updated: May 8, 2025
Again, we bridled old Battle, and proceeded slowly on, the sun being intense enough to dissolve both our brains, and the major cutting short the thread of his story by saying we would dine with Mrs. Trotbridge, whose house we ought to reach by high noon.
Here the major gave his whip two or three smart cracks, and bid old Battle proceed at a more rapid pace, as his appetite caused him to make sundry contemplations about the dinner he would get at the house of Mrs. Trotbridge.
"I know how to appreciate it, Mrs. Trotbridge, and hope nothing may come to lengthen the distance between our friendship," returned the major, shrugging his great broad shoulders, and adding that I could now go through the process of dusting while he washed his face, preparatory to listening to how times went with Mrs. Trotbridge.
A little red house, half buried under a hill side, interspersed with scrubby trees and blackberry vines, now appeared in sight. This the major described as the house of his dear good friend, Mrs. Trotbridge, the widow of three husbands, and yet so young in feeling that she was in daily expectation of getting a fourth.
And to that end did he proceed to discourse on the value of Shanghais, inviting Mrs. Trotbridge, at the same time, to take a peep at the rare lot of that breed of chickens he had in the coop.
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