se
with his boots on, as he says he's going to do, we can decide, each
according to his own taste, what he was fighting for."

"I've known all the time what was in my mind," said Bertrand
emphatically. "Of course, the extension of the new republic toward
the north will be cut off by the Yankees. Then its expansion must be
southward, and that means in time the absorption of Mexico, all the
West Indies, and probably Central America."

St. Clair was about to retort, but Harry gave him a warning look and he
contented himself with rolling into a little easier position. Harry
foresaw that these two South Carolinians would not be friends, and in
any event he hated fruitless political discussions.

Bertrand excused himself presently and went away.

"Arthur," said Harry, "I wouldn't argue with him. He's a captain in the
Invincibles now, and you're a lieutenant. It's in his power to make
trouble for you."

"You're not appealing to any emotion in me that might bear the name of
fear, are you, Harry?"

"You know I'm not. Why argue with a man who has fire on the brain?
Although he's older than you, Arthur, he hasn't got as good a rein on
his temper."

"You can't resist flattery like that, can you, Arthur? I know I
couldn't," said Happy Tom, grinning his genial grin.

St. Clair's face relaxed.

"You're right, fellows," he said. "We oughtn't to be quarreling among
ourselves when there are so many Yankees to fight."

Mail forwarded from Richmond was distributed in the camp the next day
and Harry was in the multitude gathered about the officers distributing
it. The delivery of the mail was always a stirring event in either army,
and as the war rolled on it steadily increased in importance.

There were men in this very group who had not heard from home since they
left it two years before, and there were letters for men who would never
receive them. The letters were being given out at various points,
but where Harry stood a major was calling them in a loud, clear voice.

"John Escombe, Field's brigade."

Escombe, deeply tanned and twenty-two, ran forward and received a thick
letter addressed in a woman's handwriting, that of his mother, and,
amid cheering at his luck, disappeared in the crowd.

"Thomas Anderson, Gregg's brigade. Girl's handwriting, too. Lucky boy,
Tom."

"Hey, Tom, open it and show it to us! Maybe her picture's inside it!
I'll bet she's got red hair!"

But Tom fled, blushing, and opened hi