The Gray Jacket of "No. 4"





My meeting with him was accidental. I came across him
passing through "the square". I had seen him once or twice on the street,
each time lurching along so drunk that he could scarcely stagger,
so that I was surprised to hear what he said about the war.
He was talking to someone who evidently had been in the army himself,
but on the other side -- a gentleman with the loyal-legion button in his coat,
and with a beautiful scar, a sabre-cut across his face. He was telling
of a charge in some battle or skirmish in which, he declared, his company,
not himself -- for I remember he said he was "No. 4", and was generally
told off to hold the horses; and that that day he had had the ill luck
to lose his horse and get a little scratch himself, so he was not
in the charge -- did the finest work he ever saw, and really (so he claimed)
saved the day. It was this self-abnegation that first arrested my attention,
for I had been accustomed all my life to hear the war talked of;
it was one of the inspiring influences in my humdrum existence.
But the speakers, although they generally boasted of their commands,
never of themselves individually, usually admitted that they themselves
had been in the active force, and thus tacitly shared in the credit.
"No. 4", however, expressly disclaimed that he was entitled
to any of the praise, declaring that he was safe behind the crest of the hill
(which he said he "hugged mighty close"), and claimed the glory