The winter continued of unexampled severity, and they spent most of the time in camp, although they did not waste it.  Several books of mathematics came from the North to Warner and he spent many happy evenings in their study.  Dick got hold of a German grammar and exercise book, and, several others joining him, they made a little class, which though it met irregularly, learned much.  Pennington was a wonder among the horses.  When the veterinarians were at a loss they sent for him and he rarely failed of a cure.  He modestly ascribed his merit to his father who taught him everything about horses on the great plains, where a man’s horse was so often the sole barrier between him and death.

Thus the winter went on, and they longed eagerly for spring, the breaking up of the great cold, and the last campaign.

CHAPTER XV

BACK WITH GRANT

Despite the inevitable hostility of the people their stay at Winchester was pleasant and fruitful.  All three of the new young captains experienced a mental growth, and their outlook upon the enemy was tempered greatly.  They had been through so many battles and they had measured their strength and courage against the foe so often that all hatred and malice had departed.  North and South, knowing too little of each other before the war, had now learned mutual respect upon the field of combat.  And Dick, Warner and Pennington, feeling certain that the end was at hand, could understand the loss and sorrow of the South, and sympathize with the fallen.  Their generous young hearts did not exult over a foe whom they expected soon to conquer.

Late in January of the fateful year 1865 Dick was walking through the streets of Winchester one cold day.  The wind from the mountains had a fierce edge, and, as he bent his head to protect his face from it, he did not see a stout, heavily built man of middle age coming toward him, and did not stop until the stranger, standing squarely in his way, hailed him.

“Does the fact that you’ve become a captain keep you from seeing anything in your path, Mr. Mason?” asked the man in a deep bass, but wholly good-natured voice.

Dick looked up in surprise, because the tones were familiar.  He saw a ruddy face, with keen, twinkling eyes and a massive chin, a face in which shrewdness and a humorous view of the world were combined.  He hesitated a moment, then he remembered and held out his hand.

“It’s Mr. Watson, the contractor,” he said.

“So it is, lad,” said John Watson, grasping the outstretched hand and shaking it heartily.  “Don’t mind my calling you lad, even if you are a captain.  All things are comparative, and to me, a much older man, you’re just a lad.  I’ve heard of your deed in the mountains, in fact, I keep track of all of you, even of General Sheridan himself.  It’s my business to know men and what they do.”