ns for the national defence. Colonel Sharpe spoke with some
bitterness and Crittenden wondered. He never dreamed that there was any
bitterness on the other side--why? How could a victor feel bitterness
for a fallen foe? It was the one word he heard or was to hear about the
old war from Federal or ex-Confederate. Indeed, he mistook a short,
stout, careless appointee, Major Billings, with his negro servant, his
Southern mustache and goatee and his pompous ways, for a genuine
Southerner, and the Major, though from Vermont, seemed pleased.

But it was to the soldier outside that Crittenden's heart had been
drawn, for it was his first stirring sight of the regular of his own
land, and the soldier in him answered at once with a thrill. Waiting for
Rivers, he stood in the door of the hotel, watching the strong men pass,
and by and by he saw three coming down the street, arm in arm. On the
edge of the light, the middle one, a low, thick-set, black-browed
fellow, pushed his comrades away, fell drunkenly, and slipped loosely to
the street, while the two stood above him in disgust. One of them was a
mere boy and the other was a giant, with a lean face, so like Lincoln's
that Crittenden started when the boy called impatiently:

"Pick him up, Abe."

The tall soldier stooped, and with one hand lifted the drunken man as
lightly as though he had been a sack of wool, and the two caught him
under the arms again. As they came on, both suddenly let go; the middle
one straightened sharply, and all three saluted. Crittenden heard
Rivers's voice at his ear:

"Report for this, Reynolds."

And the drunken soldier turned and rather sullenly saluted again.

"You'll come right out to camp with me," repeated Rivers.

And now out at the camp, next morning, a dozen trumpets were ringing
out an emphatic complaint into Crittenden's sleeping ears:

"I can't git 'em up,
I can't git 'em up,
I can't git 'em up in the mornin',
I can't git 'em up,
I can't git 'em up,
I can't git 'em up at all.
The corporal's worse than the sergeant,
The sergeant's worse than the lieutenant,
And the captain is worst of all."

This is as high up, apparently, as the private dares to go, unless he
considers the somnolent iniquity of the Colonel quite beyond the range
of the bugle. But the pathetic appeal was too much for Crittenden, and
he got up, stepping into a fragrant foot-bath of cold dew and out to a
dapple gray was