“Jedge, you and Mistah Bagby must please suh, s'cuse me fur ramblin' on lak dis. I reckin I done took up nuff of yore time--I spects I better be gittin' on towo'ds my own home.” But he made no move to start, because the old Judge was speaking; and the worn look was gone from the Judge's face, and the stress of some deep emotion made the muscles of his under jaws tighten beneath the dew-laps of loose flesh. “Some who never struck a blow in battle, nevertheless served our Cause truly and faithfully,” he said, as though he were addressing an audience of numbers. “Some of the bravest soldiers we had never wore a uniform and their skins were of a different color from our skins. I move that our comrade Isaac Copeland here present be admitted to membership in this Camp. If this motion is regular and accordin' to the rules of the organization, I make it. And if it ain't regular--I make it jest the same!” “I second that motion,” said Sergeant Jimmy Bagby instantly and belligerently, as though defying an unseen host to deny the propriety of the step. “It is moved and seconded,” said Judge Priest formally, “that Isaac Copeland be made a member of this Camp. All in favor of that motion will signify by saying Aye!” His own voice and the Sergeant's answered as one voice with a shrill Aye. “Contrary, no?” went on the Judge. “The Ayes have it and it is so ordered.” It was now the Sergeant's turn to have an inspiration. Up he came to his feet, sputtering in his eagerness. “And now, suh, I nominate Veteran Isaac Copeland for the vacant place of color bearer of this Camp--and I move you furthermore that the nominations be closed.” The Judge seconded the motion and again these two voted as one, the old negro sitting and listening, but saying nothing at all. Judge Priest got up from his chair and crossing to a glass cabinet at the back of the platform, he opened the door and drew forth a seven foot staff of polished wood with a length of particolored silk wadded about its upper part and bound round with a silken cord. “Unde Ike,” he said, reverently, “You are our color-sergeant now in good and proper standin'--and here are your colors for you.” The old negro came shuffling up. He took the flag in his hands. His bent back unkinked until he stood straight. His long fleshless fingers, knotted and gnarled and looking like fire-blackened faggots twitched at the silken square until its folds fell away and in the gas light it revealed itself, with its design of the starred St. Andrew's cross and its tarnished gold fringe.