"I can't recall it now, sir," he delightfully lied.
The general cleared his throat, laid his pipe aside, and drew up his chair.
"It was in my last battle," he began. "You know I got that ball in my shoulder and was laid up when Lee surrendered—well, sir, I was propped up there close by a company of those raw-boned mountaineers from North Carolina, and they stood as still as the pine wood behind 'em, while their colonel swore at 'em like mad.
"'Damn you for a troop of babies!' he yelled. 'Ain't you goin' into the fight? Can't you lick a blamed Yankee?' And, bless your soul! those scraggy fellows stood stock still and sung out:
"'We ain't mad!'
"Well, sir, they'd no sooner yelled that back than a bullet whizzed along and took off one of their own men, and, on my oath, the bullet hadn't ceased singing in my ears before that company charged the enemy to a man—and whipped 'em, too, sir—whipped 'em clean off the field!"
He paused, clapped his knee, and roared.
"That's your North Carolinian," he said. "He's a God Almighty fighter, but you've got to make him mad first."
Miss Chris brought her knitting to the lamp, and Eugenia, sitting with her hands in her lap, followed the conversation with abstracted interest.
It was not until Dudley rose to go that he came over to her and took her hand.