For my part, I should have taken it as far less an insult to be styled “fellow,” “clown,” or “bumpkin.” To either of these appellations my rustic garb (it was a linen blouse, with checked shirt and striped pantaloons, a chip hat on my head, and a rough hickory stick in my hand) very fairly entitled me. As the case stood, my temper darted at once to the opposite pole; not friend, but enemy!

“What do you want with me?” said I, facing about.

“Come a little nearer, friend,” said the stranger, beckoning.

“No,” answered I. “If I can do anything for you without too much trouble to myself, say so. But recollect, if you please, that you are not speaking to an acquaintance, much less a friend!”