No, I barely remembered the rider had generously moved aside to let me go by. In pure sourness at the poverty of my dress and the perfection of his, I had avoided looking at him higher than his hundred-dollar boots. My feet were in uncolored cowhide, except the toes. "He noticed you," said Gholson; "he looked back at you and your bay. Wouldn't you like to turn back and see his horse?" "Why, hardly, if I'm behindhand now. Is it so fine as that?" "Well, no. It's the horse he captured the time he got the Yankee who had him prisoner." "Who?" I cried. "What! You don't mean to say--was that Lieutenant Ferry?" "Yes, so called. He wa'n't a lieutenant then, he was a clerk, like you or me." "Oh, I wish I had noticed him!" "We can see him yet if you--" "Do you want to see him?" I gathered my horse. "Me!--No, sir. But you spoke as if--" I shook my head and we moved toward the tents. This was worse than the dream; the rat had not seen the cockerel, but the cockerel had observed the rat--dropping into the barrel: the cockerel, yes, and not the cockerel alone, for I saw that Gholson was associating him with her of the curtained wagon. By now they were side and side. I asked if Ferry came often to headquarters. "Yes, quite as often as he's any business to." "Ah, ha!" thought I, and presently said I had heard he was a great favorite. "Well,--yes,--he--he is,--with some." "Don't you like him?" "Who, me? Oh!--I--I admire Ned Ferry--for a number of things. He's more foolhardy than brave; he's confessed as much to me. Women call him handsome. He sings; beautifully, I suppose; I can't sing a note; and wouldn't if I could. Still, if he only wouldn't sing drinking-songs --but, Smith, I think that to sing drinking-songs--and all the more to sing them as well as some folks think he does--is to advocate drinking, and to advocate drinking is next door to excusing drunkenness!" "Then Ned Ferry doesn't drink?" "Indeed he does! I don't like to say it, and I don't say he drinks 'too much', as they call it; but, Smith, he drinks with men who do! Oh, _I_ admire him; only I do wish--" "Wish what?" "Oh, I--I wish he wouldn't play cards. Smith, I've seen him play cards with the shells bursting over us!" For my part I privately wished this saint wouldn't rub my uninteresting surname into me every time he spoke. As we dismounted near the tents I leaned against my saddle and asked further concerning the object of his loving anxiety. Was Ned Ferry generous, pleasant, frank?