Like a skittish horse old Gid shied at the office door. Once he had
crossed that threshold and it had cost him a crop of cotton.
"How are you, John?" was Gid's salutation as he edged off, still fanning
himself.
"How are you, sir?" was the Major's stiff recognition of the fact that
Gid was on earth.
"Getting hotter, I believe, John."
"I presume it is, sir." The Major sat with his elbow resting on a desk,
and about him were stacked threatening bundles of papers; and old Gid
knew that in those commercial romances he himself was a familiar
character.
"Are you busy, John?"
"Yes, but you may come in."
"No, I thank you. Don't believe I've got time."
"Then take time. I want to talk to you. Come in."
"No, not to-day, John. Fact is I'm not feeling very well. Head's all
stopped up with a cold, and these summer colds are awful, I tell you.
It was a summer cold that took my father off."
"How's your cotton in that low strip along the bayou?"
"Tolerable, John; tolerable."
"Come in. I want to talk to you about it."
"Don't believe I can stand the air in there, John. Head all stopped up.
Don't believe I'm going to live very long."
"Nonsense. You are as strong as a buck."
"You may think so, John, but I'm not. I thought father was strong, too,
but a summer cold got him.
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