my particular friend, Henry Waterman, who has been teaching music out in
the country, and wants to go up the river. You will give him a pass, I am
sure." It was the provost marshal, who answered, "certainly." Now was my
time for disappearing. But Mrs. Dana would not listen to this. General Dana
would never forgive her if she let me go. Besides, there was to be a supper
and a dance. I sat down again very much disconcerted. The situation was
becoming awkward. Then Mrs. Dana spoke. "You say you have been teaching
music. What is your instrument?" Saved! "The piano," I answered. The girls
escorted me to the rear drawing-room. It was a new Steinway Grand, just
set up, and I played for my life. If the black bombazine covering my gray
uniform did not break, all would be well. I was having a delightfully good
time, the girls on either hand, when Mrs. Dana, still enthusiastic, ran
in and said, "General Dana is here. Remembers you perfectly. Come and see
him."

He stood by a table, tall, sardonic, and as I approached he put out his
hand and said: "You have grown a bit, Henry, my boy, since I saw you last.
How did you leave my friend Forrest?"

I was about making some awkward reply, when, the room already filling up,
he said:

"We have some friends for supper. I am glad you are here. Mamie, my
daughter, take Mr. Watterson to the table!"

Lord! That supper! Canvasback! Terrapin! Champagne! The general had seated
me at his right. Somewhere toward the close those expressive gray eyes
looked at me keenly, and across his wine glass he said:

"I think I understand this. You want to get up the river. You want to see