There were thirty-three of them, ranging in years all the way from eight to eighteen. They were eager and enthusiastic. And the light of the low sun, shining red on their faces, disclosed a spirit of earnestness among them, as well as that appreciation of sport common to all American boys. At the command to fall in there was much pushing and jostling, much striving for desirable places, and even the young captain, with great show of authority, could not quite adjust all differences to the complete satisfaction of his men. Before the confusion had wholly ceased, and while there were still awkward gaps in the ranks, a tall, straight, shy-mannered boy of seventeen, who had remained hitherto on the outskirts of the group, quietly slipped into one of the vacant places. The ranks being finally formed, the orderly sergeant stepped out in front of the company to call the roll. By some inadvertence he had lost or mislaid his list of names, and for the moment he was at a loss what to do. But his quick wit came to his rescue, and, beginning at the right of the line, he called the names of those who were under his eye. “Albright!” “Here.” “Valentine!” “Here.” “Bannister!” “Here.” It was the tall straight boy who had slipped quietly into the ranks who responded to this last name. Down the line there went a little murmur of surprise, and before the sergeant could call the next name, one of his soldiers stepped one pace to the front and struck his hand violently against his breast. The astonished sergeant ceased suddenly to call the roll. “What’s the matter with you, Sam?” he inquired. “I want to know,” said Sam, resentment ringing in his voice, “what right Bob Bannister has to be in this company.” “Why ain’t he got a right?” responded the sergeant. “Because he’s a traitor,” replied the indignant Sam. “And his father’s a copperhead,” added another fledgeling soldier, stepping also one pace to the front. Then came from the ranks generally a chorus of protest against the admission of the tall straight youth to the privileges of the drill. The sergeant, turning appealingly to the captain, who was standing with folded arms at some little distance, said deprecatingly: “It’s none o’ my business. All I got to do is to call the roll. I don’t muster ’em in.” Whereupon the captain, fifteen years of age, took the matter up. “Let private Bannister step to the front,” he commanded. The accused boy fell out of the rear rank, passed to the left of the line, and so on to the front. “Speak for yourself, Bob,” he said. “You’re charged with being a traitor.” “It’s not true,” replied the boy quietly but firmly, his face flushing and paling by turns. “Well, what about your father?” cried Sam. “Ain’t he said ’t this war’s a failure and ’t Abe Lincoln’s a fraud?” “An’ ain’t he the biggest copperhead in Mount Hermon township?” piped up a small boy on the extreme left.