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No, I barely remembered the rider had generously moved aside to let me go by. In pure sourness at the poverty of my dress and the perfection of his, I had avoided looking at him higher than his hundred-dollar boots. My feet were in uncolored cowhide, except the toes.

The patient gentleman smiled again as he said, "Oh--Gholson can attend to that."

"Hi! there goes one of them!--Halt!--Halt, you blue--" pop!--pop!--pop!

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"To what command do you belong?" he asked.

"Why, I can read my safety in your face. You can't read anything in mine; you're afraid to look."

I mumbled something about never wishing to tempt any one.

He was not wordy, and he tarried but a moment, yet he explained his paralysis. In the dreary monotone of a chronic sour temper he related that some Confederates, about a year before, had come here impressing horses, and their officer, on being called by him "no gentleman," had struck him behind the ear with the butt of a carbine. I asked what punishment the officer received, and I noticed the plural pronoun as he icily replied, "We didn't enter any complaint."

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