He breathed a deep breath of humble admiration. He had looked at the youth for encouragement several times. He received none, but gradually he seemed to get absorbed in his subject. 

 “I was talkin’ ’cross pickets with a boy from Georgie, onct, an’ that boy, he ses, ‘Your fellers ’ll all run like hell when they onct hearn a gun,’ he ses. ‘Mebbe they will,’ I ses, ‘but I don’t b’lieve none of it,’ I ses; ‘an’ b’jiminey,’ I ses back t’ ’um, ‘mebbe your fellers ’ll all run like hell when they onct hearn a gun,’ I ses. He larfed. Well, they didn’t run t’ day, did they, hey? No, sir! They 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. 

 Prev. P 44/111 next