"Come in, come in," he said one day. "Just looking over the 'Veteran.' Ever hear of Sam Davis? Greatest hero South ever knew! That's his picture. Wasn't afraid of any damned Yankee that ever pulled a trigger."
"Was he a rebel?" asked the unfortunate Sandy.
The doctor swelled with indignation. "He was a Confederate, sir! I never knew a rebel."
"It was the Confederates that wore the gray?" asked Sandy, trying to cover his blunder.
"They did," said the doctor. "I put it on at nineteen, and I'll be buried in it. Yes, sir; and my hat. Wouldn't wear blue for a farm. Hate the sight of it so, that I might shoot myself by mistake. Ever look over these maps? This was the battle of—"
A door opened and a light head was thrust out.
"Now, d-dad, you hush this minute! You've told him that over and over. Sandy's my company. Come in here, Sandy."
A few moments later there was a moving of chairs, and Annette's voice was counting, "One, two, three; one, two, three," while Sandy went through violent contortions
in his efforts to waltz. He had his tongue firmly between his teeth and his eyes fixed on vacancy as he revolved in furniture—destroying circles about the small parlor.
"That isn't right," cried Annette. "You've lost the time. You d-dance with the chair, Sandy, and I'll p-play the p-piano."