"How do you know?"

"'Cause at least seven thousand in this train have been sleepin' as hard
as you wuz. I guess you mean the 'rig'nal Seventy Thousand Sleepers."

Harry's spirits had returned after his long sleep. He was a lad again.
The weight of Gettysburg no longer rested upon him. The Army of Northern
Virginia had merely made a single failure. It would strike again and
again, as hard as ever.

"It's true that we've been slumbering," he said, "but we're as wide awake
now as ever, Mr. Driver."

"My name ain't Driver," said the man.

"Then what is it?"

"Jones, Dick Jones, which I hold to be a right proper name."

"Not romantic, but short, simple and satisfying."

"I reckon so. Leastways, I've never wanted to change it. I'm from No'th
Calliny, an' I've been followin' Bobby Lee a pow'ful long distance from
home. Fine country up here in Pennsylvany, but I'd ruther be back in
them No'th Calliny mountains. You two young gen'rals may think it's an
easy an' safe job drivin' a wagon loaded with ammunition. But s'pose you
have to drive it right under fire, as you most often have to do, an' then
if a shell or somethin' like it hits your wagon the whole thing goes off
kerplunk, an' whar are you?"