It was “Chris.” Miller, whom I had known at Haddington Hospital, and he was walking on his artificial leg.
“Hollo! Miller, my boy! How do you do?” I exclaimed, as we shook hands.
“Fine,” he said.
“Do you live here?”
“Yes—or rather, in Alleghany City.”
“I am glad we have met. I stay at the St. Charles to-night. I hope you are not engaged.”
“No.”
“Then you must take supper with me. Come up a moment; then we will take a walk.”
I re-entered the hotel, accompanied by Miller, and opening the register again with the air of the owner, I wrote immediately under my name:
“MAJOR C. MILLER, Pittsburg Arsenal.”