Nickle's dancing school, or at the ball at Fort Finney.
The winter slipped away, and one cool evening in May there came a negro
to my room with a note from Colonel Clark, bidding me sup with him at the
tavern and meet a celebrity.
I put on my best blue clothes that I had brought with me from Richmond,
and repaired expectantly to the tavern about eight of the clock, pushed
through the curious crowd outside, and entered the big room where the
company was fast assembling. Against the red blaze in the great
chimney-place I spied the figure of Colonel Clark, more portly than of
yore, and beside him stood a gentleman who could be no other than General
Wilkinson.
He was a man to fill the eye, handsome of face, symmetrical of figure,
easy of manner, and he wore a suit of bottle-green that became him
admirably. In short, so fascinated and absorbed was I in watching him as
he greeted this man and the other that I started as though something had
pricked me when I heard my name called by Colonel Clark.
"Come here, Davy," he cried across the room, and I came and stood abashed
before the hero. "General, allow me to present to you the drummer boy of
Kaskaskia and Vincennes, Mr. David Ritchie."
"I hear that you drummed them to victory through a very hell of torture,
Mr. Ritchie," said the General.
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