"Yes, sir," said the guileless old Sergeant, quickly, and with perfect
seriousness. "We have, sir, and I'm not sayin' a wor-rd against the
rest, sir."

The Sergeant's voice was as kind as his face, and Grafton soon learned
that he was called "the Governor" throughout the regiment--that he was a
Kentuckian and a sharpshooter. He had seen twenty-seven years of
service, and his ambition had been to become a sergeant of ordnance. He
passed his examination finally, but he was then a little too old. That
almost broke the Sergeant's heart, but the hope of a fight, now, was
fast healing it.

"I'm from Kentucky, too," said Crittenden. The old soldier turned
quickly.

"I knew you were, sir."

This was too much for Grafton. "Now-how-on-earth--" and then he checked
himself--it was not his business.

"You're a Crittenden."

"That's right," laughed the Kentuckian. The Sergeant turned. A soldier
came up and asked some trifling question, with a searching look, Grafton
observed, at Crittenden. Everyone looked at that man twice, thought
Grafton, and he looked again himself. It was his manner, his bearing,
the way his head was set on his shoulders, the plastic force of his
striking face. But Crittenden saw only that the Sergeant answered the
soldier as though he were talking to a superior. He had been watching
the men closely--they might be his comrades some day--and, already, had