The Major laughed.

"I admire your frankness, sir," he said. "I meant to say that its logic
rather than its substance reminded one of Lincoln."

"I tried to learn what I could from him, Major Sherman."

At length the car stopped, and they passed into the Arsenal grounds.
Drawn up in lines on the green grass were four regiments, all at last in
the blue of their country's service. Old soldiers with baskets of
cartridges were stepping from file to file, giving handfuls to the
recruits. Many of these thrust them in their pockets, for there were not
enough belts to go around. The men were standing at ease, and as Stephen
saw them laughing and joking lightheartedly his depression returned. It
was driven away again by Major Sherman's vivacious comments. For suddenly
Captain Lyon, the man of the hour, came into view.

"Look at him!" cried the Major, "he's a man after my own heart. Just look
at him running about with his hair flying in the wind, and the papers
bulging from his pockets. Not dignified, eh, Whipple? But this isn't the
time to be dignified. If there were some like Lyon in Washington, our
troops would be halfway to New Orleans by this time. Don't talk to me of
Washington! Just look at him!"

The gallant Captain was a sight, indeed, and vividly described by Major
Sherman's picturesque words as he raced from regiment to regiment, and
from company to company, with his sandy hair awry, pointing,
gesticulating, commanding. In him Stephen recognized the force that had
swept aside stubborn army veterans of wavering faith, that snapped the