Uncle Abner
I was born clean and have no taste for liquor."
"Abner," said Campbell, "you move about in the dark, and I have no time to grope after you. The woman should be ready."
"But are you ready?" said my uncle.
"Man! Man!" cried Campbell. "Will you be forever in a fog? Well, travel on to Satan in it! I am ready, and here are the women!"
But it was not the bride. It was MacPherson to inquire if the bride should come.
My uncle got up then.
"Campbell," he said, in his deep, level voice, "if the bride is ready, you are not."
The man was at the limit of forbearance.
"The devil take you!" he cried. "If you mean anything, say what it is!"
"Campbell," replied my uncle, "it is the custom to inquire if any man knows a reason why a marriage should not go on. Shall I stand up before the company and give the reason, while the marriage waits? Or shall I give it to you here while the marriage waits?"
The man divined something behind my uncle's menace.
"Bid them wait," he said to MacPherson.
Then he closed the door and turned back on my uncle—his shoulders thrown forward, his fingers clenched, his words prefaced by an oath.
"Now, sir,"—and the oath returned,—"what is it?"
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