torn.' The
gambler made quite a ludicrous picture, streaking it through town with
his coat-tails off."

This is Pope's story, but I will here tell the sequel which was not
near so amusing to me.

Sometime afterwards, the writer and participant in the fray of the
"coat-tail" was slightly wounded, and was sent to Lynchburg to the
hospital, formerly a Catholic college, if I am not mistaken. After
being there for a time with my wounded brother officers (this was a
hospital for officers alone) I became sufficiently convalescent to
feel like a stroll through the city. I felt a little tender, lest I
might meet unexpectedly my unknown antagonist and erstwhile hostile
enemy; but one night I accepted the invitation of a tall, robust-built
Captain from Tennessee (a room-mate, and also convalescent from a
slight wound) to take a stroll. Being quite small, friendless, and
alone, I did not object to this herculean chaperone. After tiring of
the stroll, we sauntered into a soldier's cheap restaurant and called
for plates. While we were waiting the pleasure of "mine host," the
tread of footsteps and merry laughter of a crowd of jolly roisters met
our ears, and in walked some soldiers in the garb of "city police,"
and with the crowd was my man of the "long coat-tail." My heart sank
into the bottom of my boots, my speech failed me, and I sat stupified,
staring into space. Should he recognize me, then what? My thought ran
quick and fast. I never once expected help from my old Tennessean.
As we were only "transient" acquaintances, I did not think of the
brotherhood of the soldier in this emergency. The man of the "long
coat" approached our table and raised my hat, which, either by habit
or force of circumstances, I will not say, I had the moment before
pulled down over my eyes.

"Hey, my fine young man, I think I know you. Aren't you the chap that
torn my coat sometime ago? Answer me, sir," giving me a vigorous shake
on the shoulder. "You are the very d----n young ruffian that did it,
and I am going to give you such a thrashing as you will not forget."

I have never yet fully decided what answer I was going to
make--whether I was going to say yes, and ask his pardon, with the
risk of a thrashing, or deny it--for just at that moment the "tall
sycamore of the Holston" reached out with his fist and dealt my
assailant a blow sufficient to have felled an ox of the Sweetwater.
Sending the man reeling across the room, the blood squirting an