“’Caze I’m an orf’cer now,” Eph told her proudly.
“Yo’re bughouse,” she assured him. “De booby man’ll git you.”
Eph thought nothing of her word at that time; but two or three weeks later, it was repeated in a way that frightened him.
He had fallen into the habit of acting a little comedy of his own; a habit infinitely soothing to his soul. When he climbed the Hill every night, on his way home, he passed the Shaw Memorial, and he had always stopped to look at it. Now he fell into the habit of marching stiffly down the middle of the road to face the Memorial, and of coming to a halt there, standing at attention, and saluting after the ancient fashion of his Rebellion days. He used to fancy that the eyes in the sculptured faces of the marching soldiers turned sidewise to look at him; he used to imagine that the arm of the officer graven in the stone flicked upward in an answering gesture. And there were nights when he stood thus for a minute or two, speaking his thoughts aloud....
Walter Ragan came upon him so, one bleak dawn in mid-November. Old Eph, very stiff and straight, was saying respectfully:
“Yas suh, Cunnel; I’se a soldier now. Ol’ Eph. Yas suh; gwine tuh be an orf’cer, too.”
Ragan called to him: “You, Eph, what are you doing out there?”
Eph saw the patrolman, and cackled. “Howdy, Miste’ Ragan,” he called.
“What are you up to, you old rascal?”
“Jes’ makin’ my reports to de Cunnel,” said Eph gleefully. “Makin’ my reports on a little matter.”