“My dear companion in misery, we gentlemen of the road refuse nothing! And besides, it was cheap at the price. Any well-regulated garage would have taxed him ten dollars. And it pleased me to see that I’m so well disguised. I’ve sat at the same table with that man and he didn’t know me from Adam. The barber and tailor make us, Joe--remember that I said so. I’m learning something new every day and by the time we’ve walked around the world we’ll be educated men.” “I’m afraid you’d lose me,” grinned Joe. “I heard a train whistle a while ago. It almost gave me heart disease.” There were times now when Wayne seemed himself, but he was more and more inexplicable. When he sprawled under a tree during their long noonings Joe knew that he did not sleep, but stared silently at the sky; and as they trudged along many hours would pass in utter silence. And so, by devious ways, they came to Gettysburg. They had gone astray many times when, at nightfall, they came unawares upon the battlefield. A fog born of recent rains rose from the wet earth and hung in broken clouds. They paused beside a fence, uncertain of directions. Suddenly a cry from Joe arrested Wayne’s attention. Near at hand a horse and rider seemed flung upward into the misty starlight. The erect figure of the man, the arched neck and upraised foot of the horse, were startlingly vivid. The weird spectacle held them fascinated. At any moment the mystical horseman might take flight and gallop into the enfolding fog in pursuit of his lost legion. Other figures, equally fantastical, and ghostly monuments rose against the starry sky out of the drifting fog-ribbons. Joe, staring about, cried aloud in fear as he stumbled against a cannon. Wayne explained that they were on the Gettysburg battlefield and that these were memorials of dead soldiers. “It’s too woozy for me,” declared Joe, and they sought the town and found their bags and lodging for the night. They woke in the morning to find it Memorial Day, with excursions of veterans pouring in for a celebration. They followed their own devices, keeping away from the crowd, and late in the afternoon rested at the foot of Warren’s statue on Little Round Top. Wayne had bought a map and he opened it to fix the lines of Pickett’s assault. His blood tingled as he grasped the significance of the famous charge, gazing down upon the field of death. He explained it to Joe and they rose as by one impulse and took off their caps. “They were men, Joe; it takes men with the real stuff in them to do that.”