This afternoon Bob sat at the front gate and waited in vain. He was cut out by politics.
His master, who had found much to do in watching the depots, and not missing what the streets also had to offer, did not appear until nearly supper time.
“Here you are, Ned,” called Mr. Miller, Clarion in hand. “This means you: ‘Marchers not attached to any organization may obtain their uniforms at Room 6, Shinn Block. It is requested that the uniforms be returned here, either immediately after the meeting, or to-morrow.’”
“Good!” cried Ned. “What kind of uniform?”
“Oh, nothing very extra, you’ll find,” replied his father, destroying Ned’s visions of epaulets and a cocked hat.
“But it will serve to keep your clothes from the oil and soot, I hope,” voiced the thrifty mother.
Ned galloped through his chores, and bolted a hasty supper. Hal whistled for him, and ruthlessly shutting in the barn the luckless Bob—who would have been unhappy, anyway, with so many bands playing in his ears, and so many feet to dodge—he scooted off.
“We’ll watch for you, when the parade comes past the corner,” cried his mother, after him; for the line of march led within a block of the house.
Already streams of people, mostly men and boys, some even now in uniform, were flowing toward the business centre of town; and that business centre itself was a fascinating scene of bustle, as the marchers, in a variety of costumes, strode the walks, or loitered at their points of assembly.