fit, an' fit,
an' fit."

His homely face was suffused with a light of love for the army which
was to him all things beautiful and powerful.

After a time he turned to the youth. "Where yeh hit, ol' boy?" he
asked in a brotherly tone.

The youth felt instant panic at this question, although at first its
full import was not borne in upon him.

"What?" he asked.

"Where yeh hit?" repeated the tattered man.

"Why," began the youth, "I--I--that is--why--I--"

He turned away suddenly and slid through the crowd. His brow was
heavily flushed, and his fingers were picking nervously at one of his
buttons. He bent his head and fastened his eyes studiously upon the
button as if it were a little problem.

The tattered man looked after him in astonishment.

CHAPTER IX.

The youth fell back in the procession until the tattered soldier was
not in sight. Then he started to walk on with the others.

But he was amid wounds. The mob of men was bleeding. Because of the
tattered soldier's question he now felt that his shame could be viewed.
He was continually casting sidelong glances to see if the men were
contemplating the letters of guilt he felt burned into his brow.

At times he regarded the wounded soldiers in an envious way. He
conceived persons with torn bodies to be peculiarly happy. He wished
that he, too, had a wound, a red badge of courage.

The spectral soldier was at his side like a stalking reproach. The
man's eyes were still fixed in a stare into the unknown. His gray,
appalling face had attracted attention in the crowd, and men, slowing
to his dreary pace, were walking with him. They were discussing his
plight, questioning him and giving him advice.

In a dogged way he repelled them, signing to them to go on and leave
him alone. The shadows of his face were deepening and his tight lips
seemed holding in check the moan of great despair. There could be seen
a certain stiffness in the movements of his body, as if he were taking
infinite care not to arouse the passion of his wounds. As he went on,
he seemed always looking for a place, like one who goes to choose a
grave.

Something in the gesture of the man as he waved the bloody and pitying
soldiers away made the youth start as if bitten. He yelled in horror.
Tottering forward he laid a quivering hand upon the man's arm. As the
latter slowly turned his waxlike features toward him, the youth
screamed:

"Gawd! Jim Conklin!"

The tall sol