ny frill or flourish. He said only a few words
of good plain talk and was done with us.

'Which is Brower?' he enquired presently.

I came forward more scared than ever I had been before.

'My son,' he said, taking my hand in his, 'why didn't you run?'

'Didn't dare,' I answered. 'I knew it was more dangerous to run away
than to go forward.'

'Reminds me of a story,' said he smiling. 'Years ago there was a bully
in Sangamon County, Illinois, that had the reputation of running faster
and fighting harder than any man there. Everybody thought he was a
terrible fighter. He'd always get a man on the run; then he'd ketch
up and give him a licking. One day he tadded a lame man. The lame man
licked him in a minute.

'"Why didn't ye run?" somebody asked the victor.

'"Didn't dast," said he. "Run once when he tackled me an I've been lame
ever since."

"How did ye manage to lick him?" said the other.

'"Wall," said he, "I hed to, an' I done it easy."

'That's the way it goes,' said the immortal president, 'ye do it easy if
ye have to.

He reminded me in and out of Horace Greeley, although they looked no
more alike than a hawk and a handsaw. But they had a like habit of
forgetting themselves and of saying neither more nor less than they
meant. They both had the strength of an ox and as little vanity. Mr
Greeley used to say that no man could amount to anything who worried
much about the fit of his trousers; neither of them ever encountered
that obstacle.

Early next morning I took a train for home. I was in soldier clothes I
had with me no others--and all in my car came to talk with me about the
now famous battle of Bull Run.

The big platform at Jersey City was crowded with many people as we got
off the train. There were other returning soldiers--some with crutches,
some with empty sleeves.

A band at the further end of the platform was playing and those near me
were singing the familiar music,

'John Brown's body lies a mouldering in the grave.

Somebody shouted my name. Then there rose a cry of three cheers for
Brower. It's some of the boys of the Tribune, I thought--I could see
a number of them in the crowd. One brought me a basket of flowers. I
thought they were trying to have fun with me.

'Thank you!' said I, 'but what is the joke?'

'No joke,' he said. 'It's to honour a hero.'

'Oh, you wish me to give it to somebody.'

I was warming with embarrassment

'We wish you to keep it,' he answered.