"Captain Windham?" he said, and went on turning the leaves. "Yes, sir." "I have received three despatches from you. September 30th, by an old negro. Christian name, Joe." "Daddy Joe," murmured Gard. "Not at all! Simply Joe." "Oh! I thought it was Daddy," said Gard, sadly. "Joe--simply Joe. October 15th, by an officer of General ----'s brigade, on sick leave; name, Burton. October 24th, by Army Post. Harper's Ferry. Is that correct?" "Yes, sir. I'm the fourth. I'm dated November 7th." "I am aware of the date," said the other, sharply. He seemed to suspect some frivolous irony in his visitor, a lack of seriousness and respect, a motion of humor repellent to the authoritative and downright atmosphere of that office. Then he glanced suddenly at the calendar and frowned. "You are mistaken, sir. It is the 6th." Gard dropped his eyes to his torn and weather-stained old gray hat, and turned it slowly around his finger. "It comes from being so long down there," he said, regretfully. "I thought their calendar was one day ahead of ours. They seemed to get there about one day ahead." The other glared at him through his spectacles, then said, shortly: "I will take your information." After the questioning and writing were finished he continued: "I will forward this to the new commander-in-chief, appointed yesterday, the 5th"--with another glance at the calendar for security--"in place of the late commander-in-chief, relieved," and looked up quickly as if expecting to find some revenge or satisfaction in his surprise. But Gard did not seem to be surprised or interested. He looked at a vigorous clump of hair at the top of the official's head, then down at his old hat indifferently. "I think that I should like a furlough." The other was irritated, almost fierce. "Send in your application and I will see that it is granted. That's all. Good-day. Captain Windham, it remains for me to say that you have done very well--remarkably well--and appear to be exhausted in proportion. I repeat, you have done very well." "I think"--Gard paused at the door--"I think it was Daddy Joe." "Good-day, sir!" Gard went down the steps, and wondered at his caring so little whether he had done well or not. He did not know why he had wanted to irritate that irritable but powerful official. It had seemed at the time to have points of interest. Probably if one cared about a military career it would not be wise to irritate officials, and, if one did not, it lacked interest. "He thinks himself something, that one. But"--untying his horse--"I suppose he is." And he rode down the great avenue, whistling. "The Campbells are coming--trala!" Hundreds of flags hung from windows and waved over buildings. The white dome of the capitol rose up in the distance against the sky. A regimental band was playing a quickstep somewhere near. Towards the river the trunk of the half-built monument stood, purposing in time to commemorate one thought to have been something in his time.