Captain Paulding stood upon the stoop of the grocery store, addressing the crowd which had collected at the roll of the drum in the hands of young Benny Bruce, who had also enlisted, although less than fifteen years old. The captain had been “spouting” earnestly for half an hour, but no new volunteers had appeared. The muster roll numbered thirty-four names, and Captain Paulding wanted forty before starting on the long march for Washington. Behind the captain sat a clerk with the list in hand and a table with pens and ink beside him, for the captain knew that many volunteers had to be “caught on the fly,” or their enthusiasm would wane and they would not sign the enlistment paper. Beside the clerk sat Josiah Bruce, the father of Benny, a veteran who had lost a hand in the Mexican war, and who was much crippled by rheumatism. “Come, boys; come and sign!” cried Josiah Bruce, waving his stump of an arm over his head. “I went to Mexico, and my son there is goin’ to beat the drum fer ye. Sign, I say, an’ be patriots! Hurrah for the Stars and Stripes! Oh, if I wasn’t doubled up with this ’ere rheumatism, I’d show ye! Benny, beat the drum ag’in. Perhaps some o’ the men standin’ around hain’t heard it yet!” And Benny beat the drum so vigorously that a larger crowd than ever began to collect. Again Captain Paulding addressed those before him. “Shall it be said that the majority of the men of Goreville were cowards; that they would not march forth to uphold the hand of their President? No, never! Come now and sign; place your names on the golden roll of honor ere it is too late. Ha! Here is another, our worthy citizen, Moses Blackwell. Moses is a blacksmith, as we all know, and creation help the rebel that gets in front of him in a hand-to-hand fight. Soldiers, three cheers for our new member, Moses Blackwell.” And as Moses, a tall, thin, but, nevertheless, powerful fellow, put down the rough scrawl which went for his signature, the cheers were given with a will. As the blacksmith stepped back, two others came to the front, one a man who had just hopped from a farm wagon, and who came forward with his pants tucked in his boots and his whip in his hand. “Bart Callings and Nathan Hornsby!” announced Captain Paulding. “Keep the ball a-rolling, boys. Now is the time, remember, ere it is too late. Soldiers, three cheers for Callings and Hornsby! That makes thirty-seven. We want at least three more. Come, now! Come! Everybody join in, please.” “‘My country, ’tis of thee, Sweet land of liberty; Of thee I sing!’” Loud and clear arose the song on the bracing April air, and ere the refrain had died away two more names had been added to the list. The echo of the final word yet rang over the distant hills when Louis Rockford slipped shyly from his horse and mounted the store porch from the side. “I want to sign, please,” he almost whispered to the clerk.