[Illustration:  “Well, old chap!”]

“No,” cried Captain heartily.

That was not the exact word that he used, but he expressed it by beating his tail against the table and giving a long howl.

“And if Tim, there, goes dawdling after a woman, we shall stick to the ridges, and the foxes, and the rabbits.  We can’t go as fast as we used to, Captain, but we can go together, eh?”

“The same as ever and the same forever,” cried Captain.

Those were not his exact words, but I saw his answer in his eyes, for he had climbed higher and they were close to mine.  He seemed ready to swallow me.

“And when he brings her home, Captain,” said I, “and fills the whole house with young ones who’ll pull your tail and tickle your ears and play horse with my crutches, we shall sit outside and smoke our pipes alone, in peace and quiet, eh, Captain?”

“Oho!” cried Captain.  “That we will, and you never need want, Mark, for I’ve many a fine bone buried away against old age and rainy weather.”

“Spoken like a man,” said I, slapping the hound on the back.

Tim had lighted a candle.  Now he blew out the lamp and stood over me in the half-light, holding out a hand.

“Come,” he said.  “That’s right, put your hand on my shoulder, for the stairs are steep and will trouble you.  That’s the way.  Come along, Captain; to-night we’ll all go up together.  And when she comes—­that woman—­we’ll go to your house—­all three of us—­the same as now—­eh, Captain?”

IV

“I love soldiers—­just love ’em,” she said.

“The sentiment is an old one with women,” said I.  “Were it not so, there would be no soldiers.”

“And for that reason you went to war?” she said.

“In part, yes,” I answered.

“How I should like to see the woman!” she cried.  “How proud she must be of you!”

“Of me?” I laughed.  “The woman?  Why, she doesn’t exist.”

“Then why did you turn soldier?”

“I feared that some day there might be a woman, and when that day came I wished to be prepared.  I thought that the men who fought would be the men of the future.  But I have learned a great deal.  They will be the men of the past in a few months.  The memory of a battle’s heroes fades away almost with the smoke.  In a little while, to receive our just recognition we old soldiers will have to parade before the public with a brass band, and the band will get most attention.  Would you know that Aaron Kallaberger was a hero of Gettysburg if he didn’t wear an army overcoat?”

“Oh, yes,” she said.  “I have heard about it so often.  He has told me a hundred times.”

“I suppose you have told a hundred other persons of Aaron’s prowess?” said I.

“No-o-o,” she answered.

“And so,” said I, “when Perry Thomas finished his oration last night, I had to catch it up; and if my soldiering is to result in any material good to me I must keep that oration moving to the end.”