“They ought to all be hung!” he cried, in a voice to which the excess of passion over physical strength gave a melancholy quaver. “I paid ’em what they asked--they took a hundred dollars o’ my money--an’ they ain’t sent me _him_ at all! There I went, at my age, all through the Wilderness, almost clear to Cold Harbor, an’ that, too, gittin’ up from a sick bed in Washington, and then huntin’ for the box at New York an’ Albany, an’ all the way back, an’ holdin’ a funeral over it only this very day--an’ here it ain’t _him_ at all! I’ll have the law on ‘em though, if it costs the last cent I’ve got in the world!” Poor old man! These weeks of crushing grief and strain had fairly broken him down. We listened to his fierce outpourings with sympathetic silence, almost thankful that he had left strength and vitality enough still to get angry and shout. He had been always a hard and gusty man; we felt by instinct, I suppose, that his best chance of weathering this terrible month of calamity was to batter his way furiously through it, in a rage with everything and everybody. “If there’s any justice in the land,” put in Si Hummaston, “you’d ought to get your hundred dollars back. I shouldn’t wonder if you could, too, if you sued ’em afore a Jestice that was a friend of yours.” “Why, the man’s a fool!” burst forth Arphaxed, turning toward him with a snort. “I don’t want the hundred dollars--I wouldn’t’a’ begrudged a thousand--if only they’d dealt honestly by me. I paid ’em their own figure, without beatin’ ’em down a penny. If it’d be’n double, I’d ’a’ paid it. What _I_ wanted was _my boy!_ It ain’t so much their cheatin’ _me_ I mind, either, if it ’d be’n about anything else. But to think of Alvy--_my boy_--after all the trouble I took, an’ the journey, an’ my sickness there among strangers--to think that after it all he’s buried down there, no one knows where, p’raps in some trench with private soldiers, shovelled in anyhow--oh-h! they ought to be hung!” The two women had stood motionless, with their gaze on the grass; Aunt Em lifted her head at this. “If a place is good enough for private soldiers to be buried in,” she said, vehemently, “it’s good enough for the best man in the army. On Resurrection Day, do you think them with shoulder-straps ’ll be called fust an’ given all the front places? I reckon the men that carried a musket are every whit as good, there in the trench, as them that wore swords. They gave their lives as much as the others did, an’ the best man that ever stepped couldn’t do no more.” Old Arphaxed bent upon her a long look, which had in it much surprise and some elements of menace. Reflection seemed, however, to make him think better of an attack on Aunt Em. He went on, instead, with rambling exclamations to his auditors at large.