“No, Major, it wasn’t hell that broke up, it was something inside me.  I felt it smash.  For a moment I didn’t grasp what Taylor was saying.  It sounded so like the ravings of an insane phonograph that I was for being amused, but when I found that he was actually advising the mayor to refuse our committee the use of the hay market for a bivouac during the Confederate reunion, I just got up and took his speech and fed it to him raw.  I saw red with a touch of purple and I didn’t know I was on my feet and—­”

“Major,” interrupted Andrew Sevier, his eyes bright as those of Kildare and his quiet voice under perfect control, “Judge Taylor’s exact words were that it seemed inadvisable to turn over property belonging to the city for the use of parties that could in no way be held responsible.  He elucidated his excuse by saying that the Confederate soldiers were so old now that they were better off at home than parading the streets and inciting rebellious feelings in the children, throwing the city into confusion by their disorderly conduct and—­”

“That’s all he said, Major, that’s all.  I was on my feet then and all that needs to be said and done to him was said and done right there.  I said it and Phoebe and Mrs. Peyton Kendrick did it as they walked right past him and out of the chamber of commerce hall of committees while he was trying to answer me.  That broke up the meeting and he can’t be found this morning.  Cap has had Tom looking for him.  I think when we find him we will have a few more words of remonstrance with him!” said Dave quietly.  And he stood straight and tall before the major, and as he threw back his head he was most commanding.  There was an expression of power in the face of David Kildare that the major had never seen there before.

He balanced his glasses in his hands a moment and looked keenly at the four young men lined up before him.  They made a very forceful typification of the new order of things and were rather magnificent in their defense of the old.  The major’s voice tightened in his throat before he could say what they were waiting to hear.

“Boys,” he said, and his old face lit with one of its rare smiles, “there were live sparks in these gray ashes—­or we could not have bred you.  I’m thinking you, yourselves, justify the existence of us old Johnnies and give us a clear title to live a little while longer, reunite once a year, sing the old songs, speechify, parade, bivouac a few more times together—­and be as disorderly as we damn please, in this or any other city’s hay market.  Tom, telephone Cap to go straight to the bivouac headquarters and have them get ready to get out a special edition of the Gray Picket.  If reports of this matter are sent out over the South without immediate and drastic refutations there will be a conflagration of thousands of old fire-eaters.  They will never live through the strain.  Andrew, take David up to your rooms, send for a stenographer and get together as much of that David Kildare speech as you can.  Hobson, get hold of the stenographer of the city council and get his report of both Taylor’s and Potts’ speeches.  Choke it out of him for I suspect they have both attempted to have them destroyed.”