was a certain largeness about that. But obviously the paying of
such a tribute could do no possible good--unless--to the payer. Was
there anything in that?--in the theory....

Unusual bursts of cheering broke their way into his consciousness, and
he recalled himself to see a squad of negro soldiers, all very old men,
hobbling by. These were of the faithful, whom no number of proclamations
could shake from allegiance to Old Marster. One of them declared himself
to be Stonewall Jackson's cook. Very likely Stonewall Jackson's cooks
are as numerous as once were ladies who had been kissed by LaFayette,
but at any rate this old negro was the object of lively interest all
along the line. He was covered with reunion badges, and carried two live
chickens under his arm.

Queed went down to the bottom step, the better to hear the comments of
the onlookers, for this was what interested him most. He found himself
standing next to an exceptionally clean-cut young fellow of about his
own age. This youth appeared a fine specimen of the sane, wholesome,
successful young American business man. Yet he was behaving like a
madman, yelling like Bedlam, wildly flaunting his hat--a
splendid-looking Panama--now and then savagely brandishing his fists at
an unseen foe. Queed heard him saying fiercely, apparently to the world
at large: "They couldn't lick us now. By the Lord, they couldn't lick us
now!"

Queed said to him: "You were badly outnumbered when they licked you."

Flaunting his hat passionately at the thin columns, the young man
shouted into space: "Outnumbered--outarmed--outequipped--outrationed--but
not outgeneraled, sir, not outsoldiered, not outmanned!"

"You seem a little excited about it. Yet you've had forty years to get
used to it."

"Ah," brandished the young man at the soldiers, a glad battlenote
breaking into his voice, "I'm being addressed by a Yankee, am I?"

"No," said Queed, "you are being addressed by an American."

"That's a fair reply," said the young man; and consented to take his
eyes from the parade a second to glance at the author of it. "Hello!
You're Doc--Mr. Queed, aren't you?"

Queed, surprised, admitted his identity.

"Ye-a-a-a!" said the young man, in a mighty voice. This time he shouted
it directly at a tall old gentleman whose horse was just then dancing
by. The gentleman smiled, and waved his hand at the flaunted Panama.

"A fine-looking man," said Queed.

"My father," said the young man. "G