An incident of the stampede from Manassas illustrates how unconcerned some are amidst danger and excitement. Jimmy West, a little Irishman of our company, was a character and an inveterate smoker and never lost a chance to indulge himself. After the retreat was well under way, Jimmy bethought himself of his pipe and tobacco, but a match was lacking and none of his nearby comrades had one, so he yelled out to our first sergeant, at the head of the company: “I say there, orderly, hev’ you a bit of a match about ye?” “To thunder with your pipe, Jimmy,” responded Sergt. Murphy. “You better be using your short legs pretty lively or you’ll be smoking in Libby prison tomorrow evening,” and sure enough Jimmy was among those captured. The most ludicrous incident connected with the Bull Run affair occurred near Fairfax Court House when we supposed we were safe from the Confederate cavalry. Between Centreville and Fairfax we passed the 14th Massachusetts, that had formed a line of battle across the turnpike to arrest the pursuing Confederates. We breathed somewhat easier after we had put the troops between us and our pursuers. The day was an intensely hot one, and the hundreds of horses galloping over the turnpike, hauling the heavy wagons, raised clouds of dust that were nearly suffocating, so when we crossed a little stream of water most of the teamsters halted in a large field near by for the purpose of refreshing and resting their exhausted steeds. The two boys got out of the wagon, stretched their legs and with many others went over to the creek for a wash up. Among the bathing party were William McNeil and “Hod” Clair of our company, who had made the retreat from Bull Run, one mounted on a mule with nothing but a halter and the other on the confiscated horse of some officer who had been killed in the battle. While we were splashing the water and having as much sport as any party of youngsters ever did in an old fashioned “swimmin’ hole” in their school boy days, somebody shouted “The rebs are coming,” and sure enough there was a squadron of Confederate cavalry coming at a gallop down a cross road about a mile away. You may be sure that there was some right-smart hustling. Some grabbed a blouse, cap or shirt while others buckled on their equipments in undress uniform. My partner and I saved our clothing, but deferred dressing until we were safely in our wagon with Charley Rogers urging his four horses to their utmost speed. Hod Clair made a most comical figure on the horse, dressed in nothing but his cap, blouse and cuticle, and the officer’s sword dangling against his naked left leg. IN AFTER YEARS. A quarter of a century had elapsed after the disbandment of our regiment before I saw the comrade who rode with me from Bull Run. I sat writing at my desk one afternoon when I heard some one asking up in the front part of the store if “Del” was in.