"Jakie Barsinger took the Secretary of War round the other day," the old man would say, tearfully, to his wife, "an' he made a fool of himself. He don't know a brigade from a company. An' he grinned at me—he grinned at me!"
Abbie did her best to comfort him.
"Perhaps some of the old ones what used to have you will come back."
"An' if they do," said Billy, "the clerk at the Palace'll tell 'em I ain't in the business, or I was in a accident, or that I'm dead. I wouldn't put it past 'em to tell 'em I'm dead."
Robbed of the occupation of his life, which was also his passion, Billy grew rapidly old. Abbie listened in distress as, sitting alone, he declaimed his old speeches.
"Here on the right they fought with clubbed muskets. Here—"
Often he did not finish, but dozed wearily off. There were times when it seemed that he could not long survive.
Now, however, as Memorial Day approached, he seemed to have taken a new lease of life. No longer did he sit sleepily all day on the porch or by the stove. He began to frequent his old haunts, and he assumed his old proud attitude towards his rivals.
Mrs. Gude did not share his unqualified elation.
"Something might happen," she suggested fearfully.