I did not, your honor; indeed, I did not," said "No. 4", quickly. "I
swear I did not; he is mistaken. Your honor does not believe I would
tell you a lie! Surely I have not got so low as that."

The justice turned his pencil in his hand doubtfully, and looked away.
"No. 4" took in his position. He began again.

"I fell in with an old soldier, and we got to talking about the
war--about old times." His voice was very soft. "I will promise your
honor that I won't take another drink for a year. Here, I'll take an
oath to it. Swear me." He seized the greasy little Bible on the desk
before him, and handed it to the justice. The magistrate took it
doubtfully. He looked down at the prisoner half kindly, half humorously.

"You'll just break it." He started to lay the book down.

"No; I want to take the pledge," said "No. 4", eagerly. "Did I ever
break a pledge I made to your honor?"

"Didn't you promise me not to come back here?"

"I have not been here for nine months. Besides, I did not come of my
own free will," said "No. 4", with a faint flicker of humor on his
perspiring face.

"You were here two months ago, and you promised not to take another
drink."

"I forgot that. I did not mean to break it; indeed, I did not. I fell in
with----"

The justice looked away, considered a moment, and ordered him back into
the pen with, "Ten days, to cool off."

"No. 4" stood quite still till the officer motioned him to the gate,
behind which the prisoners sat in stolid rows. Then he walked dejectedly
back into the pen, and sat down by another drunkard. His look touched
me, and I went around and talked to the magistrate privately. But he was
inexorable; he said he knew more of him than I did, and that ten days
in jail would "dry him out and be good for him." I told him the story
of the battle. He knew it already, and said he knew more than that about
him; that he had been one of the bravest soldiers in the whole army;
did not know what fear was; had once ridden into the enemy and torn
a captured standard from its captors' hands, receiving two desperate
bayonet-wounds in doing it; and had done other acts of conspicuous
gallantry on many occasions. I pleaded this, but he was obdurate; hard,
I thought at the time, and told him so; told him he had been a soldier
himself, and ought to be easier. He looked troubled, not offended; for
we were friends, and I think he liked to see me, who had been a boy
during the war, take up for an old s