After a proper wait there were sounds in the cabinet and through the darkness there spoke the tones of one of seeming hoary age. “Is that you, my son?” asked the voice. “Yes, paw, this here is me,” answered the youth. “Was there any questions you wished to ast me concernin’ my present state?” continued the accommodating voice. The boy thought a moment. Then: “Where air you, Paw?” he inquired with simple directness. “Heaven, my son.” “Air you an angel, Paw?” “Oh, yes, my son.” “An angel with wings and a harp and everything?” The answer was somewhat muffled but seemingly in the affirmative. The son considered a moment. “Say, Paw,” he demanded eagerly, “whut do you measure frum tip to tip?” § 60 History in the Un-Making There used to be a character in George Creel’s town in Missouri, a transplanted Kentuckian and a veteran of Shelby’s command, who was a born orator and an inspired romancer. One sunny afternoon he was holding forth to an attentive audience upon the part he had played in the war between the States. It was rather to be inferred that he was one of the main reasons why the Confederacy endured, against odds, for four years. He progressed to where he was enriching history with an account of the first engagement in which he had participated. “Gentlemen,” he proclaimed, “envisage the scene. There we stand, a little group, armed for the most part with nondescript weapons, with flint lock muskets, with scythes, with axes, even with cudgels. We are underfed, half shod and ragged, yet inspired by the dauntless resolution and splendid valor which sustained the Southern heart. Over the slope and straight against our line come pouring the Northern hordes, those relentless invaders of our beloved Southland, lusty and strong and equipped with every appliance for conducting warfare that modern science can provide. “We are outnumbered three to one; we are weak from hunger while they are lusty with bacon and beef. But none among us quails. A righteous belief in our sacred cause inspires us, every one. Each one feels himself a giant. And what is the result? Suddenly we leap forward in the charge. We grapple with them, we fight like demons. And, gentlemen, such is the impetuosity of our attack, such the ferocity of our blows that soon the blue lines break and in mad disorder routed the enemy flees, unable to face that irresistible torrent of Southern manhood.” From the audience spoke up a gray bearded listener. “Say, looky here, Kurnel,” he said. “I was in that there fight myself and whut really happened wuz that them plegged Yanks give us a fust rate lickin’ and run us ten miles acrost country.” With a magnificent gesture of surrender the Colonel rose to his feet. “Gentlemen,” he said, “another instance of a good story spoiled by a damn eyewitness!” § 61 Solving a Dark Mystery