“Something in that way.—­Helloa!  Brooks, back again?” to a fine, frank-looking young fellow,—­“and were you successful?”

“Yes, to both your questions.  In addition I’ll say, for your rejoicing, that I give in, cave, subside, have nothing more to say against your pet theory,—­from this moment swear myself a rank abolitionist, or anything else you please, now and forever,—­so help me all ye black gods and goddesses!”

“Phew! what’s all this?” cried Whittlesly, from the other side of his Colonel; “what are you driving at?  I’ll defy anybody to make head or tail of that answer.”

“Surrey understands.”

“Not I; your riddle’s too much for me.”

“Didn’t you go in pursuit of a dead man?” queried Whittlesly.

“Just that.”

“Did the dead man convert you?”

“No, Colonel, not precisely.  And yet yes, too; that is, I suppose I shouldn’t have been converted if he hadn’t died, and I gone in search of him.”

“I believe it; you’re such an obstinate case that you need one raised from the dead to have any effect on you.”

“Obstinate!  O, hear the pig-headed fellow talk!  You’re a beauty to discourse on that point, aren’t you!”

“Surrey laughed, and stopped at the call of one of his men, who hailed him as he went by.  Evidently a favorite here as in New York, in camp as at home; for in a moment he was surrounded by the men, who crowded about him, each with a question, or remark, to draw special attention to himself, and a word or smile from his commander.  Whatever complaint they had to enter, or petition to make, or favor to beg, or wish to urge, whatever help they wanted or information they desired, was brought to him to solve or to grant, and—­never being repulsed by their officer—­they speedily knew and loved their friend.  Thus it was that the two men standing at a little distance, watching the proceeding, were greatly amused at the motley drafts made upon his attention in the shape of tents, shoes, coats, letters to be sent or received, books borrowed and lent, a man sick, or a chicken captured.  They brought their interests and cares to him,—­these big, brown fellows,—­as though they were children, and he a parent well beloved.

“One might think him the father of the regiment,” said Brooks, with a smile.

“The mother, more like:  it must be the woman element in him these fellows feel and love so.”

“Perhaps; but it would have another effect on them, if, for instance, he didn’t carry that sabre-slash on his hand.  They’ve seen him under steel and fire, and know where he’s led them.”

“What is this you were joking about with him, a while ago?”

“What! about turning abolitionist?”

“Precisely.”

“O, you know he’s rampant on the slavery question.  I believe it’s the only thing he ever loses his temper over, and he has lost it with me more than once.  I’ve always been a rank heretic with regard to Cuffee, and the result was, we disagreed.”