heir credit.

"A man he comes up to me," says Spruce, "big man in the town, rich and
all that. He says, calling me by name--I don't know how he ever got my
name, but he had it--he says, 'I'm told you've been with the regulars;
look after the boys a little,' says he. 'That I will,' says I, 'I've
been six years in the service and I know a few wrinkles.' I do, too. He
gave me a five-dollar bill after he'd talked a while to me, and one of
his own cigars. 'Remember the town's back of you!' says he. 'Tis, too.
I'd a letter from the committee they got there, asking if we had
everything; offering to pay for nurses if they'd be allowed. Oh, it's a
bully town!"

Spruce himself had never known the sweets of local pride. He had drifted
about in the world, until at twenty he drifted into the regular army. He
had no kindred except a brother whose career was so little creditable
that Spruce was relieved when it ended--were the truth known, in a
penitentiary. He had an aunt of whom he often spoke and whom he esteemed
a credit to the family. She was a widow woman in an Iowa village, who
kept a boarding house for railway men, and had reared a large family,
not one of whom (Spruce was accustomed to explain in moments of
expansion, on pay-day, when his heart had been warmed with good red
liquor) had ever been to jail. Spruce had never seen this estimable
woman, but he felt on terms of intimacy with her because, occasionally,
on these same pay-days, he would mail her a five-dollar bank-note, the
receipt of which was always promptly acknowledged by a niece who could
spell most of her words correctly and who always thanked him for his
"kind and welcome gift," told him what they proposed to do with the
money, and invited him to come to see them.

He always meant to go, although he never did go. It was his favorite
air-castle, being able to go on furlough to the village where his aunt
lived and show his medal. He had won the medal in an Indian fight where
he had rescued his captain. The captain died of his wounds and Spruce
never got drunk (which I regret to confess he did oftener than was good
either for his soul or the service) that he didn't talk about his
captain, who had been his hero; and cry over him. Spruce, who was a
cheery creature in his normal state, always developed sentiment and
pathos when he was revealed by liquor. Now he had another day-dream. It
was to be greeted by the cheering crowds--again he would march down the
sunny s