“Well,” I answered rather ungraciously, “I suppose that _is_ promotion. But don’t a sergeant have a better chance at fighting?” “The fighting will come along,” he laughed. “We are not likely to get a scrimp measure of it this summer, I assure you. There will be enough for everybody.” When I called on my colonel, by his order, he in turn greeted me with congratulations. “Thank you, Colonel,” I said, “but I fear that I owe promotion to your favor, rather than anything that I have done to deserve it.” His cordial manner changed at once to severity, as he rebuked me sternly. “All my promotions, everything I do here, is for the good of the service. Had I not thought you fit for the place, I would not have recommended you for it.” “I beg to apologize,” I answered, “and again to thank you for your good opinion. I value that more than the promotion.” And I did. His manner changed to graciousness again, as he placed his hand on my shoulder, and said while gripping it, “My boy, I have been watching your conduct. You’ve made good. You have qualities I need in an officer. I should have recommended your promotion before, had I not feared that my liking for you might influence my judgment. I do not believe in favoritism in military affairs.” I was deeply affected, and said with tears of heartfelt affection for him, “I will do all I can to deserve your good opinion and the commission.” I assumed the duties of my rank at once and was glad, as I thought how it would gratify Aunt Joe and--some one else. That evening while I was at the “Y” writing letters--one to my aunt telling her of my promotion, and another to Emily Grant--and, I confess my vanity--telling her of the colonel’s kind words, Jot, accompanied by another officer whom I did not recognize, interrupted me. “Congratulations, Lieutenant!” cried Jot, gripping my hand with one of his, and the other arm around my shoulder in his old affectionate manner. Then, turning to the officer, he introduced him as the one who owned “Jack,” our colt, and said: “I thought you would like to know that I have bought Jack from him.” I was delighted. We went to Jack’s stable in a near-by, shell-shattered barn--Jot, myself and Muddy--and held a reunion celebration--Jack whinneying, Muddy yelping and jumping, and Jot and I seconding these demonstrations with approving petting. “But, Jot,” I said, for I had been thinking it over, “what are you going to do with the colt now that you have got him?” “I think I will get some officer who requires a horse to keep him until I need him. Anyway I wanted him and have got him;” and added, “I may have to ride him sooner than I expect.” At the time of my return to duty, our regiment with other American and French troops were on a line with a river which divided a historic city. On our left was a broken bridge, cleft as though by a huge blunt sword near its center. The fight for this bridge had, first and last, cost many lives.