As he rode through the camp a group of officers congregated before a large mess tent appeared to be highly amused by the conversation—­half monologue and half harangue of a singular-looking individual who stood in the centre.  He wore a “slouch” hat, to the band of which he had imparted a military air by the addition of a gold cord, but the brim was caught up at the side in a peculiarly theatrical and highly artificial fashion.  A heavy cavalry sabre depended from a broad-buckled belt under his black frock coat, with the addition of two revolvers—­minus their holsters—­stuck on either side of the buckle, after the style of a stage smuggler.  A pair of long enameled leather riding boots, with the tops turned deeply over, as if they had once done duty for the representative of a cavalier, completed his extraordinary equipment.  The group were so absorbed in him that they did not perceive the approach of their chief and his orderly; and Brant, with a sign to the latter, halted only a few paces from this central figure.  His speech was a singular mingling of high-flown and exalted epithets, with inexact pronunciation and occasional lapses of Western slang.

“Well, I ain’t purtendin’ to any stratutegical smartness, and I didn’t gradooate at West Point as one of those Apocryphal Engineers; I don’t do much talking about ‘flank’ movements or ‘recognizances in force’ or ‘Ekellon skirmishing,’ but when it comes down to square Ingin fightin’, I reckon I kin have my say.  There are men who don’t know the Army Contractor,” he added darkly, “who mebbe have heard of ‘Red Jim.’  I don’t mention names, gentlemen, but only the other day a man that you all know says to me, ‘If I only knew what you do about scoutin’ I wouldn’t be wanting for information as I do.’  I ain’t goin’ to say who it was, or break any confidences between gentlemen by saying how many stars he had on his shoulder strap; but he was a man who knew what he was saying.  And I say agin, gentlemen, that the curse of the Northern Army is the want of proper scoutin’.  What was it caused Bull’s Run?—­Want o’ scoutin’.  What was it rolled up Pope?—­Want o’ scoutin’.  What caused the slaughter at the Wilderness?—­Want o’ scoutin’—­Ingin scoutin’!  Why, only the other day, gentlemen, I was approached to know what I’d take to organize a scoutin’ force.  And what did I say?—­’No, General; it ain’t because I represent one of the largest Army Beef Contracts in this country,’ says I.  ’It ain’t because I belong, so to speak, to the “Sinews of War;” but because I’d want about ten thousand trained Ingins from the Reservations!’ And the regular West Point, high-toned, scientific inkybus that weighs so heavily on our army don’t see it—­and won’t have it!  Then Sherman, he sez to me”—­