"Seventh Wisconsin, sir." "What! Were you at Gainesville?" "Yes, sir. Wounded there." A knot of officers--Merritt, Mason, Sumner, and Montgomery--who fought through the war with the Army of the Potomac, are standing there as the adjutant turns. "Sergeant, take this man to Company 'K' and fit him out--and--stop a moment. Bring him to my tent to-night after supper. Gentlemen, that's an Iron Brigade man." That evening a Company "K" sergeant scratches the flap of the adjutant's tent--you cannot knock when there is no door--and presents himself with the recruit-veteran. The latter looks puzzled, but perfectly self-possessed; answers without hesitation two or three rapidly propounded questions as to names of his regimental officers in '62, and then seems completely bewildered as the adjutant takes him cordially by the hand and bids him welcome. However, it did not require many words to explain the matter. To return to those recruits. If the police force of our large Eastern cities were at a loss to account for the disappearance of a thousand or more of their "regular boarders," a flying trip to the Black Hills on this 12th day of October, '76, would have satisfied them as to their whereabouts. Where there were ten "good men and true" among the new-comers, there were forty who came simply with the intention of deserting when they got fairly into the Hills and within striking distance of the mines, an intention most successfully carried out by a large proportion of their number. And then the names under which they enlisted! "What's your name?" said the adjutant to the most unmistakable case of "Bowery Boy" in the front rank. "My name's Jackson Bewregard," is the reply, with the accompaniment of hunching shoulders, projecting chin, overlapping under-lip, and sneering nostril characteristic of Chatham Square in the palmy days of Mose. "And yours?" to Mr. Bewregard's left file, a big rough of Hibernian extraction. "My name's Jooles Vern." The adjutant glances at the muster-roll: "'No. 173--Jules Verne.' Ha! yes. The party that wrote 'Around the World in Eighty Days.' Have we many more of these eminent Frenchmen, sergeant?" The sergeant grins under his great moustache. Possibly he is recalling a fact which the adjutant has by no means forgotten, that ten years before, when they were both in General Billy Graham's famous light battery of the First Artillery, of which the adjutant was then second lieutenant, the sergeant was then, too, a sergeant, but with a very different name.