"Squashy, sar; dat's what dey called me, sar," replied the contraband,
showing a gorgeous row of ivories, and the whites of two great, globular
eyes.
"Well, Squashy,--that's a very appropriate name,--just pull off these
boots. Left one first. There--pull! hard! harder!--There she comes! Now
the other; now pull; it always comes the hardest; pull
strong--stronger--now it's coming--O, murder! you've pulled my whole leg
out!"
Sure enough, the boot, leg and all, came off at the thigh, and slap!
crash! bang! over backwards, over a camp-stool, on to the floor, went
Squashy, with the boot and wooden leg of the doctor grasped tightly in his
brawny hands.
"O, de Lord!" cried Squashy, rising. "I didn't go for to do it! O, Lord,
see um bleed!" he continued, as in the uncertain light he saw a bit of red
flannel round the stump; and, dropping the leg, he turned, and with a look
of the utmost terror depicted on his countenance, he fled from the
apartment.
On the following day the doctor made diligent inquiry for Squashy; but he
never was found, and probably to this day thinks he pulled out the leg of
his "new and hansum masser."
* * * * *
We do not know who wrote the following which is too good to be lost; hence
we give it anonymously.