Outside, at the head of the company street, the fire is gradually dying down. Wood is always provided for it, a hole is dug, the men feed it as long as they please, and in the morning the police squad, I suppose, smooth the ground. On benches or on the ground the men sit about the fire, sing, discuss, or chat in groups. There is in the store tent an easy chair made of rough lumber and sacking; when the captain can be induced to stay after conference the men bring it out, seat him in it, and make him talk. On his own doings he is silent, but on the work of the camp, the formations, drill, skirmish work, patrolling, outpost duty, and especially just now the ways of his beloved tool, the rifle, he has much to say. Around him are men often much older than he, others who in civil life command several times his pay, fellows who have every luxury at command, as well as chaps bred and indeed wedded to the most peaceable pursuits. But they all are here for a purpose; they never talk patriotism but they all act it; and everything he can tell them that bears on their efficiency as soldiers they will pump from him if they possibly can. It is fine to see how they recognize in him complete mastery of the subject that occupies us all, and how they sit at his feet for instruction. But he has left us nearly half an hour ago, and the groups that remain are slowly separating, as one by one the men go to their tents. I can tell you just what is happening in ours. The lantern is lighted and hanging on the pole. Clay is probably finishing a letter to his "mother." Bannister is doubtless already abed, but ready from his cot to add a sleepy jest to the quiet talk that is slowly going on. Reardon is putting the last stamps on the sheaf of post-cards that he daily sends, for he, you must understand, has more correspondents at home than any of the rest of us. Rather big and burly, the quietest of men, with a very active eye but very intensely committed to the minding of his own business, I know him to be the most popular man in his own little town, where as the managing clerk of the grocery he knows every man, woman, and child in the place. He knows the taste of each, what he habitually needs or demands, whether to trust or require cash. He gets through his day without a clash with anyone. And knowing both his customers and the market he looks after the needs of the town, warns of a rise in prices, calls attention to special bargains, advises to lay in a stock of this or that. They miss him now that he's gone; I know it by the pleasure he takes in the letters and post-cards that come daily, bits from which he cannot help reading out to us--from the Civil War veteran who half believes in Plattsburg, and half doesn't; the drug-store clerk that has to go off on his vacation alone; the "boss" that has nothing personal to say, but quotes the market changes; the neighbor who doesn't quite venture to trust to the post the doughnuts she wishes she might send.