"Yes, I knew Little Mac. I knew Little Mac----" It took nothing at all to set the Captain off, and he was soon in full flood. "I said to Little Mac, riding to him at full gallop ... and Little Mac said to me: "'Captain Doane.' "'Yes, sir, General,' said I. "'Do you see that rebel battery down there on the hillside?' "'I do, General.' "'Well, Cap'n Doane,' said he, 'that battery must be taken--at any cost. May I depend on you?' "'General,' said I, 'I will do my duty,' and I wheeled on my horse and rode to the front of my troop. "'Forward--_March!_ Draw--_Sabres!_ Gallop----_Charge!_----'" By this time the old Captain was on his feet, cane in hand for a sabre, the wonderful light of a by-gone conflict shining in his eyes. I could see him charging down the hill with his clattering troop; hear the clash of arms and the roll of musketry; see the flags flying and the men falling--dust and smoke and heat--the cry of wounded horses.... They took the battery. Well, when he finished his story that evening there was a pause, and then I saw Anthy suddenly lean forward, her hands clasped hard and her face glowing. "Such stories as that," she said, "ought not to be lost, Uncle Newt. They are _good_ for people. The coming generation doesn't know what its fathers suffered and struggled for--or what the country owes to them----" And then, wistfully: "I wish those stories might never be lost." Instantly Nort sprung from his chair, for great ideas when they arrived seemed to prick him physically as well as mentally. "Say," he almost shouted, "I have it! Let's have the Cap'n write the story of his life--and, by Jiminy, publish it in the _Star_. Everybody knows the Cap'n--they'd eat it up." It was Nort's genius that he could see, instantly, the greater possibilities of things, and his suggestion quite carried us away. We all began to talk at once: "Print the Captain's picture, a big one on the first page. A story every week. Why, he _knew_ James G. Blaine----" Anthy leaned back in her chair, her eyes like stars, looked at Nort, and looked at him. When we went out that night the old Captain threw a big arm over Nort's shoulder. The tears were running quite unheeded down the old fellow's face. "Nort, my boy," he said, "I love you like a son." He was happier that night than he had been before in years. The next morning Nort appeared at the office with a tremendous announcement, headed: _Captain Doane's Story of His Life_, which would, on a conservative estimate, have filled an entire page of the _Star_. And the old Captain, who need never have taken off his hat to Dickens or Dumas where copiousness was concerned, began to write--enormously. The dear old fellow, looking back into his own past, discovered anew a hero after his own heart, and as the incidents jumped at him out of his memory, he could scarcely put them down fast enough. He filled reams of yellow copy paper.