Palmer lingered, listening to the talk of the men. Dyke had been an Ohio-River pilot; after the troubles began, had taken a pork-contract under Government; but was lieutenant now, as I said. It paid better than pork, he told Palmer,--a commission, especially in damp weather. Palmer did not sneer. Dykes, North and South, had quit the hog-killing for the man-killing business, with no other motive than the percentage, he knew; but he thought the rottenness lay lower than their hearts. Palmer stood looking down at the crowd: the poorer class of laborers,--their limbs cased in shaggy blouses and green baize leggings,--their faces dogged, anxious as their own oxen. "'Bout half on 'em Secesh," whispered Jim Dyke. "'T depends on who burned their barns fust." Jim was recruiting to fill up some vacancies in Palmer's company. He had been tolerably successful that day; as he said, with a wink, to the Captain,-- "The twenty dollars a month on one side, an' the test-oath on t' other, brought loyalty up to the scratch." He presented some of the recruits to Palmer: pluming himself, adjusting the bogus chains over his pink shirt. "Hyur's Squire Pratt. Got two sons in th' army,--goin' hisself. That's the talk! Charley Orr, show yerself! This boy's father was shot in his bed by the Bushwhackers." A mere boy, thin, consumptive, hollow-chested: a mother's-boy, Palmer saw, with fair hair and dreamy eyes. He held out his hand to him. "Charley will fight for something better than revenge. I see it in his face." The little fellow's eyes flashed. "Yes, Captain." He watched Palmer after that with the look one of the Cavaliers might have turned to a Stuart. But he began to cough presently, and slipped back to the benches where the women were. Palmer heard one of them in rusty black sob out,--"Oh, Charley! Charley!"