with his hickory
whip-stock. The word buzzes up and down the line. The captain on his
horse with the boy clutching at his belt does not hear it. But the
line lags and finally halts. The men have been only two days under
military discipline. That day last week Phil Ward--who was he,
anyway? Henry Schnitzler and Oscar Fernald could have bought him and
sold him twice over. So the line halted. Then the captain halted. Then
he called Second Lieutenant Dolan and asked to know what was the
matter. "They say they are going to camp," responded Dolan, touching
his cap. Captain Ward's face flushed. He told Dolan to give the order
to march. There were shouts and laughter, and Gabriel Carnine cried,
"Say, Phil, this here Missourian we passed says old General Price is
over that hill." The boys laughed again, and Ward saw that trouble was
before him. The men stood waiting while he controlled his rage before
he spoke. Dolan said under his breath from the ground beside the
horse, "They're awful tired, Cap, and they don't want to tackle
Price's army all by their lonelies." Some one in the company called
out, "We've voted on this thing, Cap. Don't the majority rule in this
country?"

A smile twitched at Ward's mouth and the boy in him pricked a twinkle
in his eyes, for he was only twenty-six, and he laughed--threw his
head back and then leaned over and slapped the horse's neck and
finally straightened up and said, "Gentlemen, I bow to the will of the
people."

And so it happened that when they drew their first month's pay, Martin
Culpepper and Jake Dolan suggested to the company that they buy Ward a
sword to commemorate the victory of the people. And Martin Culpepper
made a great presentation speech in which he said that to the
infantry, cavalry, and artillery arms of military service, "C" Company
had added the "vox populi." But the night after the presentation Oscar
Fernald and Watts McHurdie crawled under the captain's tent and stole
the sword and pawned it for beer, and there was a sound of revelry by
night.

When they found the great camp near Springfield, it seemed to John
Barclay that all the soldiers in the world were gathered. It is
difficult for a boy under a dozen years to remember things
consecutively; because boys do not do things consecutively. They flit
around like butterflies, and so the picture that they make of events
jumps from scene to scene. One film on a roll of John's memory showed
a hot August day in the camp