“It was a fair fight and I can shake hands,” he responded. “Well, I don't mean that,” said the other thoughtfully. “What I mean is just this, you mark my words--after the battle comes the vultures. After the army of fighters comes the army of those who haven't smelled the powder. And in time you'll learn that it isn't the man with the rifle that does the most of the mischief. The damned coffee boilers will get their hands in now--I know 'em.” “Well, there's nothing left, I suppose, but to swallow it down without any fuss,” said Dan wearily, looking over the field where the slaughtered ox was roasting on a hundred bayonets at a hundred fires. “You're right, that's the only thing,” agreed the man in blue; then his keen gray eyes were on Dan's face. “Have you got a wife?” he asked bluntly. Dan shook his head as he stared gravely at the embers. “A sweetheart, I guess? I never met a Johnnie who didn't have a sweetheart.” “Yes, I've a sweetheart--God bless her!” “Well, you take my advice and go home and tell her to cure you, now she's got the chance. I like your face, young man, but if I ever saw a half-starved and sickly one, it is yours. Why, I shouldn't have thought you had the strength to raise your rifle.” “Oh, it doesn't take much strength for that; and besides the coffee did me good, I was only hungry.” “Hungry, hump!” grunted the Union soldier. “It takes more than hunger to give a man that blue look about the lips; it takes downright starvation.” He dived into his haversack and drew out a quinine pill and a little bottle of whiskey. “If you'll just chuck this down it won't do you any harm,” he went on, “and if I were you, I'd find a shelter before I went to sleep to-night; you can't trust April weather. Get into that cow shed over there or under a wagon.” Dan swallowed the quinine and the whiskey, and as the strong spirit fired his veins, the utter hopelessness of his outlook muffled him into silence. Dropping his head into his open palms, he sat dully staring at the whitening ashes. After a moment the man in blue rose to his feet and fastened his haversack. “I live up by Bethlehem, New Hampshire,” he remarked, “and if you ever come that way, I hope you'll look me up; my name's Moriarty.” “Your name's Moriarty, I shall remember,” repeated Dan, trying, with a terrible effort, to steady his quivering limbs. “Jim Moriarty, don't you forget it. Anybody at Bethlehem can tell you about me; I keep the biggest store around there.” He went off a few steps and then came back to hold out an awkward hand in which there was a little heap of silver. “You'd just better take this to start you on your way,” he said, “it ain't but ninety-five cents--I couldn't make out the dollar--and when you get it in again you can send it to Jim Moriarty at Bethlehem, New Hampshire. Good-by, and good luck to you this time.”