“Veteran myself,” said Mr. Bloomfield briskly. “Served four years and two months. Enlisted at fust call for volunteers.” “Started in kind of early myself,” said the sergeant, mechanically catching for the moment the other's quality of quick, clipped speech. “But say, look here, pardner,” he added, resuming his own natural tone, “whut's the reason you ain't out yonder at that there Colosseum with all the other boys this evenin'?” A whimsical squint brought the red eyelashes dose together. “Well,” stated Mr. Bloomfield, rummaging with a deliberate hand in the remote inner fastnesses of his whiskers, “I couldn't scursely say that I b'long out there.” Then he halted, as if there was no more to be said. “You told me you served all the way through, didn't you?” asked the sergeant, puzzled. “So I told you and so I did,” said Mr. Bloomfield; “but I didn't tell you which side it was I happened to be a-servin' on. Twentieth Indiana Infantry--that's my regiment, and a good smart one it was too.” “Oh!” said Sergeant Bagby, slightly shocked by the suddenness of this enlightenment--“Oh! Well, set down anyway, Mr. Bloomfield. Excuse me--you're already settin', ain't you?” For a fraction of a minute they contemplated each other, Sergeant Bagby being slightly flustered and Mr. Bloomfield to all appearances perfectly calm. The sergeant cleared his throat, but it was the visitor who spoke: “I've got a fust-rate memory for faces, and the like; and when I fust seen you settin' here you had a kind of familiar cut to your jib someway. That's one reason why I hailed you. I wonder now if we didn't meet up with one another acrost the smoke back yonder in those former days? I'd take my oath I seen you somewheres.” “I shouldn't be surprised,” answered Sergeant Bagby. “All durin' that war I was almost constantly somewheres.” “Fust Bull Run--I wonder could it 'a' been there?” suggested Mr. Bloomfield. “First Manassas, you mean,” corrected the sergeant gently, but none-the-less firmly. “Was you there or thereabout by any chance?” Mr. Bloomfield nodded. “Me too,” said Sergeant Bagby--“on detached service. Mebbe,” he added it softly--“mebbe ef you'd turn round I'd know you by your back.” If the blow went home Mr. Bloomfield, like a Spartan of the Hoosiers, hid his wounds. Outwardly he gave no sign. “P'raps so,” he assented mildly; then: “How 'bout Gettysburg?” The sergeant fell into the trap that was digged for him. The sergeant was proud of his services in the East. “You bet your bottom dollar I was there!” he proclaimed--“all three days.” “Then p'raps you'd better turn round too,” said Mr. Bloomfield in honeyed accents, “and mebbe it mout be I'd be able to reckernise you by the shape of your spinal colyum.” Up rose Sergeant Bagby, his face puckering in a grin and his hand outstretched. High up his back his coat peaked out behind like the tail of a he-mallard. “Pardner,” he announced, “I'm right glad I didn't kill you when I had all them chances.”