from
Barrington. He wanted to settle back in his seat and think; but that was
something he was not permitted to do. The passengers, with now and then
a notable exception, acted as though they were fit candidates for a
lunatic asylum. They were walking about the car, flourishing their hats
or fists in the air, talking loudly and shaking hands as often as they
met in the aisle. "Glorious news," "Southern rights," "Yankee mudsills,"
"Fort Sumter," were the words that fell upon Marcy's ear when he opened
the door and walked into the car. In an instant his uniform attracted
general attention.

CHAPTER XIV.

MARCY CHANGES HIS CLOTHES.

Marcy Gray was blessed with as much courage as most boys, but he would
have been glad if he could have backed out of that car without being
seen, and gone into another. Perhaps the conviction that he was "an odd
sheep in the flock," and that he held, and had often published, opinions
that differed widely from those that animated the excited, gesticulating
men before him, had something to do with his nervousness and timidity;
and it may be that the revolvers he saw brandished by two or three of
the half-tipsy passengers had more effect upon him. But he could not
retreat. They saw his uniform as soon as he opened the door, and some of
the noisiest among them stumbled to greet him.

"Here's one of our brave fellows now," shouted one, firing his revolver
out of the window with one hand while he extended the other to Marcy.
"Got his soldier clothes on and going to the front before our guns in
Charleston harbor have got through smoking. Young man, you're my style.
I'm a member of the Baltimore Grays, and I'm on my way home to join 'em
in defense of our young republic. What regiment?"

"Company A, Barrington Cadets," replied Marcy, rightly supposing that
the Baltimore man was too far gone to remember, if indeed he had ever
heard, that there was a military school in the town they had just left.
"I'm going home on a leave of absence."

"Course you are," replied the man. "Services not needed at present and
mebbe never will be. The Yankees are all mechanics and small
trades-people, and there's no fight in such. We're gentlemen, and
there's fight in us, I bet you. But you show your good will in putting
on those soldier clothes, and that's what every man's got to do, or go
up to the United States. Those who are not for us are against us, and
we