“Not at all,” he returned. “When I do any thing for a soldier I am only paying an honest debt.”
I returned to Haddington in triumph, and exhibited my pass to the assistant-surgeon who had put me in the guard-house.
“Didn’t you know,” said I, with dignity, “that Doctor Levis and I were particular friends?”
“No,” said he, turning slightly pale. “Are—are you acquainted?”
“Acquainted!” said I. “I should think so! We’ve known each other for—for—I don’t know how long.”
I didn’t know exactly how long, but knew it was something short of twenty-four hours.
“Ah? You should have told me. I am sorry. Well, go in and out of the hospital whenever you please.”
“I will,” said I.
From that time forth I had perfect liberty, during my stay at the hospital.
In June I got my artificial leg, which I have never worn much—finding a crutch and cane far superior as a means of locomotion—and having received my discharge, I called one fine morning at the United States Marshal’s office. It was early, and he had not come in yet. To pass the time, I walked to the corner of Fifth and Chestnut streets, and stood for a moment gazing at the good old clock in the State-house steeple. Streams of people were passing up and down the street; and I had not stood long before a man came up and held out his hand as though, I thought, to shake hands. Supposing him to be some old acquaintance, whose visage had faded from my memory in the course of the sanguinary scenes through which I had lately passed, I was about to seize his hand, and request him to remind me where and when we had last met, when I observed that there was a ten-cent note in the extended hand, and he seemed to be offering that to me, and not the hand. I stared in astonishment.