And, too, Grandpapa, was unhappy; his clothes bore seedy marks, and
his breeches were in such a plight--it really excited our pity. I
called his attention to an unmentionable rent in a conspicuous place,
but he seemed careless about it--said it was of no consequence--and
that Uncle Sam was a good old soul, and always paid the tailor--he
knew from experience. Suddenly I heard the formidable negro-wench
raising her voice in admonition. She was scolding the General, who
still kept stirring in the homony grits for the black pig. Then a
noise came through the foam and smoke as of one in trouble. 'Faster,
faster!' it spoke, 'stir in more grits!' Then followed a loud splash
and a deathlike shriek; alarm and consternation spread throughout the
building. From the cauldron came the cry. Grandpapa moved for a
moment, as was his custom, declared the voice to be no other than that
of the General himself. Dib agreed ('There's trouble!' he exclaimed)
and both sprang to their feet, and with anxious countenances hastened
to the rescue, Marcy crying out, as he passed Jeff and Guth, 'Stick by
the flounder, boys! Stand firm; don't give in until he's well cooked;
we'll save the General--you dig in the basting.
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