“I buy _only one_.” Thus, dear public, am I, John Smith, tormented for having sacrificed a leg for my country. How often have I felt that I would be far happier if I were still a mark for the bullets at Malvern Hill, Bull Run, or Antietam! This accursed _quizzical_ disposition on the part of the public has made me feel, at times, that life was actually a burden to me! One day I met an elderly lady in Philadelphia who stopped me on the street, asked a profusion of questions, and wound up by giving me an accurate history of her son. She said he had gone into the army, had been missing ever since a certain battle, and she feared he was no more. Ever after that, whenever we met—and it happened frequently—she would hail me, commence with, “I’ve never heard from my son yet!” and talk at me till I felt weak in the knee. At last, I met her one day, and pretending I did not see her, I was passing by, when I felt her grasp on my elbow, and was obliged to stop. “My son’s dead,” she said. “I’ve heard from his officers, and they say he was killed.” O, how I envied him! Sleeping peacefully in a quiet grave, somewhere, with nothing to trouble him, and no one to torment him with questions, he must have been happy compared with the wretched John Smith! The old lady began again to give me his full history, as she had related it to me many times before, while the cold perspiration started from my frame, and I felt as though death was not two doors from me. Thus am I bored without mercy. No one spares me, except such as have been in the army themselves. Men, women, children, foreigners, fools and even negroes, subject me to this systematic torture. One day I was walking in front of the Naval Asylum, when two little girls passed me, on their way to school. When they had passed, I heard one of them say: “O, look at that man with one leg!” “Hush!” said the other. “How would you like it if _your_ pa had but one leg and a little girl would call out that way.” “_He_ aint anybody’s pa,” retorted the first. “How do you know?” rejoined the other. CHAPTER VII. JOHN SMITH’S FRIEND. NOW let me proceed. The gentleman in the Market-street car spared me. The questions he asked were few and to the point. He was an exception. When I replied in the affirmative to his first question, he said “Where do you live?” “In Western Pennsylvania,” I replied. “Where are you staying now?” “In Haddington Hospital.” “I suppose you will soon be discharged?” “Yes, I shall soon take my discharge.” “Have you any employment in view?” “No, sir; none.” “If you would like to remain in Philadelphia awhile, when discharged from the service, I will get you a situation.” This rather took me by surprise, but I had the presence of mind to say,—— “Thank you: I think I would like it.” “Then,” said he, “call at my office near Fifth and Chestnut and I will do as I promise. My name is M* * * * * * *: I am United States Marshal.”