"You do too much," said Terrell. "The most uncomfortable hour I ever spent in my life was while I sat on that platform in Milwaukee wondering where that bullet was and in how imminent danger you were. How could you be so incautious as to make a speech then? It was all very well for you to say the shot was not fatal but how could you tell?" The colonel grinned, raised his arm heavily, trying not to show the pain that came with every movement. "I did not think the wound was dangerous," he said. "I was confident that it was not in a place where much harm could follow and therefore I wished to make the speech. Anyway, even if it went against me--well, if I had to die--" and the colonel chuckled grimly, "I thought I'd rather die with my boots on." The newspaper men who were with him when out of the darkness came the bullet that still menaces his life, felt that in that sentence he had epitomized his unfaltering courage. Never once since has he wavered in courage. Physically overcome he once sank back, and came as near to fainting as so strong a man can. All the rest of the time he has been as serene as a man unhurt. It was in the gray of this morning's daylight that we caught our first glimpse of him after the shooting. Standing in the corridor of his private car as it lay in the North-Western station in Chicago, we heard Dr. Terrell say: "Now is a chance to see the old warrior, he is coming out." The door of his state room creaked and swung open slowly. As it swung back within loomed the figure that attracts attention everywhere. The colonel stepped out slowly, his shoulders thrown back and his bearing soldierly. He stretched out two fingers to one of the party. "Ah, old comrade," he said, "shake. The newspaper boys are my friends," he added, as he proceeded toward the door of the car. "I'm glad to see them." "You had a pretty rough time last night, colonel," suggested somebody. "We did have a middling lively time, didn't we?" said the colonel with a broad grin. "Pretty plucky of you," said another man. "Everybody agrees to that." "Fiddlesticks," and the colonel stepped out on the platform and down the steps. He had indignantly refused a stretcher and even balked at an ambulance, but finally agreed that this was the best means of conveyance to the hospital. He walked past a silent crowd, a crowd that wanted to cheer, but did not dare, but stood, without a smile as he went by. To them all he waved a hand. Just as he was leaving the steps a flashlight flared forth, the sharp report of the powder startling everybody. [Illustration: Capt. A. O. Girard.] "Ah, shot again," said the colonel, without a tremor. Before climbing into the ambulance he turned to the newspaper men who had come out to see him off.