for that reason, could better handle him. Sharpe presented both to his
father, Colonel Sharpe, of the infantry, who was taking credit to
himself, that, for the first time in his life, he allowed his band to
play "Dixie" in camp after the Southerners in Congress had risen up and
voted millions 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