“Boys, there's some fight left in us yet,” exulted Captain Shelby Woodward, “and nobody knows it better than those two scoundrels back yonder! We all took a hand--we all did what we could; but it was you, Press--it was you that licked 'em both--single-handed! Boys,” he roared, glancing about him, “won't this make a story for the reunion--and won't everybody there be making a fuss over old Press!” He stopped then--remembering. “I don't go through with you,” said old Press, steadily enough. “I git off here. You fellers are goin' on through--but I git off here to wait for the other train.” “You don't do no such of a thing!” broke in Judge Priest, his voice whanging like a bowstring. “Press Harper, you don't do no such of a thing. You give me them papers!” he demanded almost roughly. “You're goin' right on through to the reunion with the rest of us--that's where you're goin'. You set right where you are in this car, and let little Rita Covington wipe that there blood off your face and tie up that thumb of yours. Why, Press, we jest naturally couldn't get along without you at the reunion. Some of us are liable to celebrate a little too much and maybe git a mite overtaken, and we'll be needin' you to take care of us. “You see, boys,” the old judge went on, with a hitch in his voice, addressing than generally, “Press here is under a pledge to me not to touch another drop of licker till he begins servin' the sentence I imposed on him; and, boys, that means Press is goin'' to be a temperance man for the balance of his days--if I know anything about the pardonin' power and the feelin's of the governor of this state!” So, as the accommodation ran in to the Junction, where crowds were packed on the platform and pretty girls, dressed in white, with touches of red at throat and belt, waved handkerchiefs, and gimpy-legged old men in gray uniforms hobbled stiffly back and forth, and the local band blared out its own peculiar interpretation of My Old Kentucky Home, the tall old man with the gashed cheek sat in his seat, his face transfigured with a great light of joy and his throat muscles clicking with the sobs he was choking down, while little Rita Covington's fingers dabbed caressingly at his wound with a handkerchief dipped in ice water and a dozen old veterans jostled one another to shake his hand. And they hit him on the back with comradely blows--and maybe they did a little crying themselves. But Sergeant Jimmy Bagby and Corporal Jacob Smedley took no part in this. Out on the rear platform they still stood, side by side, waving the flag and firing the unfirable musket harder and faster than ever; and, as one waved and the other loaded and fired, they cheered together: “'Rah for Jefferson Davis, the Southern Confederacy--and Pressley G. Harper!” VII. STRATAGEM AND SPOILS