it’s almost enough to make his liquor go agin him.”  He stopped theatrically, seemed to choke emotionally over his brandy squash, but with a pause of dramatic determination finally dashed it down.  “No, gentlemen,” he continued gloomily, “I don’t say what I’m back in Washington for—­I don’t say what I’ve been sayin’ to myself when I’ve bin picking the weevils outer my biscuits in Libby Prison—­but ef you don’t see some pretty big men in the War Department obliged to climb down in the next few days, my name ain’t Jim Hooker, of Hooker, Meacham & Co., Army Beef Contractors, and the man who saved the fight at Gray Oaks!”

The smile of satisfaction that went around his audience—­an audience quick to seize the weakness of any performance—­might have startled a vanity less oblivious than Hooker’s; but it only aroused Brant’s indignation and pity, and made his position still more intolerable.  But Hooker, scornfully expectorating a thin stream of tobacco juice against the spittoon, remained for an instant gloomily silent.

“Tell us about the fight again,” said a smiling auditor.

Hooker looked around the room with a certain dark suspiciousness, and then, in an affected lower voice, which his theatrical experience made perfectly audible, went on:—­

“It ain’t much to speak of, and if it wasn’t for the principle of the thing, I wouldn’t be talking.  A man who’s seen Injin fightin’ don’t go much on this here West Point fightin’ by rule-of-three—­but that ain’t here or there!  Well, I’d bin out a-scoutin’—­just to help the boys along, and I was sittin’ in my wagon about daybreak, when along comes a brigadier-general, and he looks into the wagon flap.  I oughter to tell you first, gentlemen, that every minit he was expecting an attack—­but he didn’t let on a hint of it to me.  ‘How are you, Jim?’ said he.  ’How are you, general?’ said I.  ‘Would you mind lendin’ me your coat and hat?’ says he.  ’I’ve got a little game here with our pickets, and I don’t want to be recognized.’  ‘Anything to oblige, general,’ said I, and with that I strips off my coat and hat, and he peels and puts them on.  ‘Nearly the same figure, Jim,’ he says, lookin’ at me, ’suppose you try on my things and see.’  With that he hands me his coat—­full uniform, by G-d!—­with the little gold cords and laces and the epaulettes with a star, and I puts it on—­quite innocent-like.  And then he says, handin’ me his sword and belt, ‘Same inches round the waist, I reckon,’ and I puts that on too.  ’You may as well keep ’em on till I come back,’ says he, ‘for it’s mighty damp and malarious at this time around the swamp.’  And with that he lights out.  Well, gentlemen, I hadn’t sat there five minutes before Bang! bang! rattle! rattle! kershiz! and I hears a yell.  I steps out of the wagon; everything’s quite dark, but the rattle goes on.  Then along trots an orderly, leadin’ a horse.  ‘Mount, general,’ he says, ‘we’re attacked—­the rear-guard’s on us!’”