At a subsequent meeting the committee took up the case of Mr. Jones again. It was a matter of real embarrassment to every one of us. We all wished to avoid hurting the feelings of President Grant. There had been no malice in Senator Morton's remark about the elegant gentleman presiding over a livery stable. Morton was one of the staunchest administration men, but he simply could not resist the humor of the occasion. I do not recollect what the result of the "further inquiry" was. I have a vague impression that Mr. Jones turned out to be in some way connected with the street-car lines in Chicago, and to have had much to do with horses, which was supposed to be the link of sympathy between him and President Grant. However reluctant the committee was to wound the President's feelings in so personal a matter, yet it did not think it consistent with its sense of duty and dignity positively to recommend to the Senate to confirm the nomination of Mr. Jones. It therefore, if I remember rightly, reported it back to the Senate without any recommendation, whereupon the Senate indulgently ratified it. THE FOREGOING ARTICLE WILL BE THE LAST OF THE CARL SCHURZ REMINISCENCES TO APPEAR IN MCCLURE'S MAGAZINE. THE WRITING OF THE MEMOIRS WAS BROKEN OFF AT THIS POINT BY MR. SCHURZ' DEATH, WHICH OCCURRED IN 1906. A CONCLUSION TO THE SERIES, COMPILED BY MR. FREDERIC BANCROFT FROM CARL SCHURZ' NOTES AND LETTERS, WILL APPEAR IN VOLUME III OF THE BOOK, WHICH WILL BE ISSUED IN THE FALL. A CAVALRY PEGASUS BY WILL ADAMS ILLUSTRATIONS BY DAN SAYRE GROESBECK The orderly-room was quiet; only the clicking of the Troop Clerk's type-writer broke the stillness in sharp taps. Captain Campbell and Sergeant Stone were at their desks, absorbed in papers. Presently Stone pushed his work aside, and, hunting in a pigeonhole, brought forth a grimy bundle. "Are you interested in poetry, sir?" he said. Captain Campbell, _alias_ Shorty, sat up, with a snort, and peered over the piled-up findings of a court-martial case. "Am I a love-sick puppy? Do I _look_ as if I were interested in poetry?" Shorty's hair was mussed and matted, his flannel shirt (he never wore a coat, if he could help it) was open at the throat, and the dust of the early-morning drill still adhered to his countenance, giving it a curiously gray-veiled appearance--he said he hadn't had time to wash. Stone was forced to admit that his appearance was not poetic. "Well," he said, "I guess this isn't really poetry--just a stab at it. Shall I read----"