For a moment he gasped with astonishment.  For a moment gloomy incredulity, suspicion, delight, pride, admiration, even affection, struggled for mastery in his sullen, staring eyes and open, twitching mouth.  For here was Clarence Brant, handsomer than ever, more superior than ever, in the majesty of uniform and authority which fitted him—­the younger man—­by reason of his four years of active service, with the careless ease and bearing of the veteran!  Here was the hero whose name was already so famous that the mere coincidence of it with that of the modest civilian he had known would have struck him as preposterous.  Yet here he was—­supreme, and dazzling—­surrounded by the pomp and circumstance of war—­into whose reserved presence he, Jim Hooker, had been ushered with the formality of challenge, saluting, and presented bayonets!

Luckily, Brant had taken advantage of his first gratified ejaculation to shake him warmly by the hand, and then, with both hands laid familiarly on his shoulder, force him down into a chair.  Luckily, for by that time Jim Hooker had, with characteristic gloominess, found time to taste the pangs of envy—­an envy the more keen since, in spite of his success as a peaceful contractor, he had always secretly longed for military display and distinction.  He looked at the man who had achieved it, as he firmly believed, by sheer luck and accident, and his eyes darkened.  Then, with characteristic weakness and vanity, he began to resist his first impressions of Clarence’s superiority, and to air his own importance.  He leaned heavily back in the chair in which he had been thus genially forced, drew off his gauntlet and attempted to thrust it through his belt, as he had seen Brant do, but failed on account of his pistols already occupying that position, dropped it, got his sword between his legs in attempting to pick it up, and then leaned back again, with half-closed eyes serenely indifferent of his old companion’s smiling face.

“I reckon,” he began slowly, with a slightly patronizing air, “that we’d have met, sooner or later, at Washington, or at Grant’s headquarters, for Hooker, Meacham & Co. go everywhere, and are about as well known as major-generals, to say nothin’,” he went on, with a sidelong glance at Brant’s shoulder-straps, “of brigadiers; and it’s rather strange—­only, of course, you’re kind of fresh in the service—­that you ain’t heard of me afore.”

“But I’m very glad to hear of you now, Jim,” said Brant, smiling, “and from your own lips—­which I am also delighted to find,” he added mischievously, “are still as frankly communicative on that topic as of old.  But I congratulate you, old fellow, on your good fortune.  When did you leave the stage?”

Mr. Hooker frowned slightly.

“I never was really on the stage, you know,” he said, waving his hand with assumed negligence.  “Only went on to please my wife.  Mrs. Hooker wouldn’t act with vulgar professionals, don’t you see!  I was really manager most of the time, and lessee of the theatre.  Went East when the war broke out, to offer my sword and knowledge of Ingin fightin’ to Uncle Sam!  Drifted into a big pork contract at St. Louis, with Fremont.  Been at it ever since.  Offered a commission in the reg’lar service lots o’ times.  Refused.”