From his flat flask the old Judge toned up the contents of their julep cups. Then, with pauses, during which he took delicate but prolonged sips, he spoke on in the rambling, contemplative fashion that was as much a part of him as his trick of ungrammatical speech or his high bald forehead was, or his wagging white chin-beard: “Well, purty soon after that we were all down yonder at old Camp Boone, and chiefly engaged, in our leisure hours--which we had blamed few leisure hours, at that--in figurin' out the difference between talkin' about soldierin' and braggin' about it, and actually doin' of it. There wasn't no more dancin' of quadrilles with purty girls then. We done our grand right-and-left with knapsacks on our backs and blisters on our feet. Many and many a feller that had signed up to be a hero made the distressin' discovery what he'd really j'ined on to. “All this time little old Herman was doin' his share like a major. Long before he could make out the words of command, he'd picked up the manual of arms, jest frum watchin' the others in the same awkward squad with him. He was peart enough that-a-way. Where he was slow was learnin' how to talk' so ez you could make out whut he was aimin' to say. It seemed like that was the only slow thing about him. “Natchelly the boys poked a heap of fun at him. They kept prankin' with him constantly. But he taken it all in good part and grinned back at 'em, and never seemed to lose his holt on his temper. You jest couldn't help likin' him--only he did cut such funny mon-keyshines with the Queen's English when he tried to talk! “Because he was so good-natured, some of the boys took it into their heads, I reckin, that he didn't have no real grit; or mebbe they thought he wasn't spunky because he was a Jew. That's a delusion which a good many suffer frum that don't know his race. “I remember one night, about three weeks or a month after we went into camp, Herman was put on post. The sergeant mighty near lost his mind, and did lose his disposition, drillin' the countersign and the password into Herman's skull. So a couple of boys out of the Calloway County company--they called themselves the Blood River Tigers, and were a purty wild and devilish lot of young colts ginerally--they took it into their heads that after it got good and dark they'd slip down to the lines and sneak up on Herman, unbeknownst to him, and give him a good skeer, and mebbe take his piece away from him--sort of play hoss with him, ginerally. So, 'long about 'leven o'clock they set out to do so.” He paused and looked at Doctor Lake, grinning. I couldn't hold in. “What happened?” I asked.