He paid the corporal two dollars to drill him all Sunday afternoon; and when he suggested that he would be too stiff and sore to drill the following morning, answered: “Not on your tin type. I may have a rookie head but my legs are veterans. Don’t think these few pranks will worry these hayr arms and legs; I have put in the last five winters swinging big fat gals. And I’ve got a back like a pack mule, made to tote things on; but it’s never been broke to a pack saddle and never will be.” On Monday he took his place with his company and went through the drill with the snap and precision of a veteran. As intended, he caught the eye of the captain; and when he was told to step forward, saluted him like a general; and stood at attention. “Well, my man, what experience have you had?” “Two years as drill sergeant, Company C, ———— Regiment of the Kentucky State Guards.” “What is your name?” “William L. Blair, though most people call me Sergeant Sandy Blair.” “Return to the ranks.” (This order came near getting him—but as the captain turned away, he resumed his place in line.) The captain looked his way and wrote something in a note book. A few days later the company was reorganized and he was made a junior drill sergeant, the superior of the corporal who had drilled him. The corporal considered the story too good to keep. It reached the ears of the captain and he told it to the Colonel, threatening to send Blair to the guard house. But the Colonel said: “No, send him to me.” Blair presented himself; and after a most deferential salutation, stood at attention. The Colonel leisurely looked him over. While Blair guessed the cause of the summons, he never shifted his eyes from a spot about an inch above the Colonel’s head. He stood as a marble statue, and without the least change of expression; though he heard the Colonel laugh and a moment later snappily say: “Sergeant Blair, where are you from?” “Red Bird, Clay County, Kentucky.” “So you are an accomplished drill sergeant?” “Have me shot as a liar, if my legs are not veterans.” “Are you a good marksman?” “The best in America.” “Go at once to the rifle range. I’ll be over shortly. We will see if you are as good a marksman as drill sergeant.” At the rifle range he found about twenty-five other soldiers who had been selected for a test of marksmanship. As the colonel and his captain had not yet arrived, he stepped up and from a dozen rifles chose one and examining it carefully appeared satisfied and laid it to one side. When the officers came up the men were informed that each was to fire five rounds at the three hundred yard target. The Colonel turning to Blair, said: “Blair, you begin the test, as your nerve might be shattered by the strain of delay.”