he had been calculating on broaching the subject of going to New York
to his father after the midday meal.

"He said his shoulder hurt him awfully last night," added Grace. "I
heard him tell ma he could almost feel the bullet worrying him in the
flesh."

"It's mighty queer he doesn't get a pension," said Nancy. "I'm sure
he deserves one. Didn't he ever apply, Dick? I read in a Philadelphia
paper the other day about a man getting sixteen dollars a month allowed,
and a whole lot of back pay--more than two or three thousand dollars!"

"Two or three thousand dollars!" cried Grace. "Oh, Nancy, it's a
fortune!"

"But it's true, every word."

"I believe father has tried," replied Richard. "But it seems that he
must have witnesses to prove his identity, and all that--"

"And can't he get them?" asked Grace, eagerly.

"I believe not. All his old comrades are either dead or scattered, and
he hasn't a single address."

"Did he ever hunt for any of them?"

"I think he wrote two or three letters, but that's all. You know how
father is."