"Oh, my, it's mother's pretty boy, goin' to see his best girl!"

The young officer flushed crimson through his brown, but he knew it was
no use to resent the words of his tormentors, and he rode steadily on,
looking straight before him.

"That's Caswell, a Georgian, of Longstreet's corps," said Sherburne; "a
good soldier and one of the bravest men I ever saw."

"Which proves," said St. Clair, in a tone of conviction, "that clothes
do help make the man."

Caswell passed out of sight, pursued by derisive comment, but his place
was taken quickly by a new victim. A man of middle age, in civilian
clothes, came riding slowly on a fat horse. He was a well-known sutler
named Williams and the wild lads did not confine themselves to hidden
cries, but rushed from the shelter of trees and bushes, and held up worn
articles of apparel, shouting in his ears:

"Hey, Mr. Williams! The soles of these shoes are made of paper, not
leather. I bought leather, not paper."

"What's the price of blue silk neckties? I've got a Yankee sweetheart
in New York, and I want to look well when our conquering army marches
into that city!"

"A pair of blankets for me, Mr. Williams, to be paid for when we loot
the Yankee treasury!"