On the way to Washington his spirit had soared. The regiment was
fed and caressed at station after station until the youth had
believed that he must be a hero. There was a lavish expenditure
of bread and cold meats, coffee, and pickles and cheese. As he
basked in the smiles of the girls and was patted and
complimented by the old men, he had felt growing within him the
strength to do mighty deeds of arms.

After complicated journeyings with many pauses, there had come
months of monotonous life in a camp. He had had the belief that
real war was a series of death struggles with small time in between
for sleep and meals; but since his regiment had come to the field
the army had done little but sit still and try to keep warm.

He was brought then gradually back to his old ideas. Greeklike
struggles would be no more. Men were better, or more timid.
Secular and religious education had effaced the throat-grappling
instinct, or else firm finance held in check the passions.

He had grown to regard himself merely as a part of a vast blue
demonstration. His province was to look out, as far as he could,
for his personal comfort. For recreation he could twiddle his
thumbs and speculate on the thoughts which must agitate the
minds of the generals. Also, he was drilled and drilled and
reviewed, and drilled and drilled and reviewed.

The only foes he had seen were some pickets along the river bank.
They were a sun-tanned, philosophical lot, who sometimes shot
reflectively at the blue pickets. When reproached for this