“Cumrud,” replied Mr. Bloomfield, “on the whole and considerin' of everything, I don't regret now that I spared you.” If Sergeant Bagby had but worn a Confederate goatee, which he didn't, being smooth-shaved; and if he hadn't been standing mid-shin-deep in a foot-tub; and if only Mr. Bloomfield's left shirtsleeve, instead of being comfortably full of freckled arm, had been empty and pinned to the bosom of his waistcoat--they might have posed just as they stood then for the popular picture entitled _North and South United_ which you will find on the outer cover of the Memorial Day edition of every well-conducted Sunday newspaper in the land. But that is ever the way with real life--it so often departs from its traditional aspects. After a bit the sergeant spoke. “I was jest thinkin',” he said dreamily. “So was I,” assented Mr. Bloomfield. “I wonder now if it could be so that we both of us had our minds on the same pleasin' subject?” “I was jest thinkin',” repeated the sergeant, “that merely because the Bloody Chasm is bridged over ain't no fittin' reason why it shouldn't be slightly irrigated frum time to time.” “My idee to a jot,” agreed Mr. Bloomfield heartily. “Seems as if the dust of conflict has been a-floatin' round loose long enough to stand a little dampin' down.” “Ef only I was at home now,” continued Sergeant Bagby, “I'd be able to put my hand on somethin' handy for moistenin' purposes; but, seein' as I'm a visitor here, I ain't in no position to extend the hospitalities suitable to the occasion.” “Sho, now! Don't let that fret you,” soothed Mr. Bloomfield--“not with me livin' next door.” He nimbly descended the steps, but halted at the bottom: “Cumrud, how do you take yours--straight or toddy?” “Sugar and water don't hurt none--in moderation,” replied the sergeant. “But look here, pardner, this here is a preacher's front porch. We don't want to be puttin' any scandal on him.” “I'd already figured that out too,” said the provident Mr. Bloomfield. “I'll bring her over in a couple of chiny teacups.” The smile which, starting from the centre, spread over the sergeant's face like ripples over a pond had not entirely faded away when in a miraculously short time Mr. Bloomfield returned, a precious votive offering poised accurately in either hand. “Bagby,” he said, “that's somethin' extry prime in the line of York-state rye!” “Is it?” said the sergeant. “Well, I reckin the sugar comes frum Newerleans and that oughter take the curse off. Bloomfield, here's lookin' toward you!” “Same to you, Bagby!”