"'Well, Cap'n Doane,' said he, 'that battery must be taken—at any cost. May I depend on you?'
"'General,' said I, 'I will do my duty,' and I wheeled on my horse and rode to the front of my troop.
"'Forward—March! Draw—Sabres! Gallop——Charge!——'"
By this time the old Captain was on his feet, cane in hand for a sabre, the wonderful light of a by-gone conflict shining in his eyes. I could see him charging down the hill with his clattering troop; hear the clash of arms and the roll of musketry; see the flags flying and the men falling—dust and smoke and heat—the cry of wounded horses.... They took the battery.
Well, when he finished his story that evening there was a pause, and then I saw Anthy suddenly lean forward, her hands clasped hard and her face glowing.
"Such stories as that," she said, "ought not to be lost, Uncle Newt. They are good for people. The coming generation doesn't know what its fathers suffered and struggled for—or what the country owes to them——" And then, wistfully: "I wish those stories might never be lost."
Instantly Nort sprung from his chair, for great ideas when they arrived seemed to prick him physically as well as mentally.
"Say," he almost shouted, "I have it! Let's have the Cap'n write the story of his life—and, by Jiminy, publish it in the Star. Everybody knows the Cap'n—they'd eat it up."
It was Nort's genius that he could see, instantly, the greater possibilities of things, and his suggestion quite carried us away. We all began to talk at once:
"Print the Captain's picture, a big one on the first page. A story every week. Why, he knew James G. Blaine——"