beckoning sign with the fingers, to signify, "Be a good fellow; put it
under my bed, please." The man did it, and left. The lucky soldier
painfully turned himself in his bed until he faced the other warrior,
raised himself partly on his elbow, and began to work up a mysterious
expression of some kind in his face. Gradually, irksomely, but surely
and steadily, it developed, and at last it took definite form as a pretty
successful wink. The sufferer fell back exhausted with his labor, but
bathed in glory. Now entered a personal friend of No. 2, the despoiled
soldier. No. 2 pleaded with him with eloquent eyes, till presently he
understood, and removed the coffin from under No. 1's bed and put it
under No. 2's. No. 2 indicated his joy, and made some more signs; the
friend understood again, and put his arm under No. 2's shoulders and
lifted him partly up. Then the dying hero turned the dim exultation of
his eye upon No. 1, and began a slow and labored work with his hands;
gradually he lifted one hand up toward his face; it grew weak and dropped
back again; once more he made the effort, but failed again. He took a
rest; he gathered all the remnant of his strength, and this time he
slowly but surely carried his thumb to the side of his nose, spread the
gaunt fingers wide in triumph, and dropped back dead. That picture
sticks by me yet. The "situation" is unique.

The next morning, at what seemed a very early hour, the little white
table-waiter appeared suddenly in my room and shot a single word out of
himself "Breakfast!"

This was a remarkable boy in many ways. He was about eleven years old;
he had alert, intent black eyes; he was quick of movement; there was no
hesitation, no uncertainty about him anywhere; there was a military
decision in his lip, his manner, his speech, that was an astonishing
thing to see in a little chap like him; he wasted no words; his answers