For the time he felt no pain, but his blood ceased to sing in his ears. Everything seemed to settle down around him, blank and dull and angry. He felt as if either the army of the North or the army of the South had not treated him rightly. If they had given him a minute more he might have clubbed something worth while. He sat up against a tree, wondered what his chance was to pull through, thought it poor, and thought he would sell it for a drink. The firing dropped off little by little, and the mist was coming up. Dinkey began to see sights. His face and hands were hot, and things seemed to be riproaring inside him generally. The mist was full of flickering lights, which presently seemed to be street lamps down the Bowery. The front windows of Reilly's saloon were glaring, and opposite was Gottstein's jewelry store, where he had happened to hit one Halligan in the eye for saying that Babby Reilly was his girl and not Dinkey's; and he bought Babby a 90-cent gold ring of Gottstein, which proved Halligan to be a liar. The cop saw him hit Halligan, too, and said nothing, being his friend. And Halligan enlisted in Company G with the rest of the boys, and was keeled over in the dark one night on picket duty, somewhere up country. All the gang went into Company G. The captain was one of the boys, and so was Pete Murphy, the big lieutenant. He was a sort of ward sub-boss, was Pete. “Reilly, he's soured on me, Pete. I dun-no wot's got the ol' man.” The lights seemed to grow thick, till everything was ablaze. “Aw, come off! Dis ain't de Bowery,” he muttered, and started and rubbed his eyes. The mist was cold and white all around him, ghostly and still, except that there was a low, continual mutter of voices above, and now and then a soft moan rose up from somewhere. And it seemed natural enough that a ghost should come creeping out of the ghostly mist, even that it should creep near to him and peer into his face, a ghost with a gray chin beard and haggard eyes. “I'm going down,” it whispered. “Come on. Don't make any noise.” “Hully gee!” thought Dinkey. “It's the Pope!” A number of things occurred to him in confusion. The deacon did not see he was hit. He said to himself: “I ain't no call to spoil 'is luck, if he is country.” He blinked a moment, then nodded and whispered hoarsely: “Go on.” The deacon crept away into the mist. Dinkey leaned back feebly and closed his eyes. “Wished I'd die quick. It's rotten luck. Wished I could see Pete.”