On a late visit to the good man, we found a poor veteran just approaching his desk.
"Mr. Mack, sir," said the man.
"That's my name sir. Take a seat."
The man stepped forward briskly, but with a limp. He was sixty years of age, with gray hair, shabbily attired, lame in the leg and arm, and, as it afterwards appeared, one half of his right foot gone; a wreck of the human form divine, but with much manliness left about him.
"What is your business, friend?"
"That's it, sir; and I'll thank you if you can do it," he replied cheerily, as he handed a letter.
"You want to go to New London?" said Mr. Mack, after reading the missive.
"That's it, sir; my darter lives there. I've walked all the way from Philadelphia, and my legs have kinder give out. One of them ain't of much account anyway, but I've got to make the best of it."
Mr. Mack. "Were you a soldier? You know my business is principally with soldiers, although I should be glad to assist you if it is in my power."
Veteran. "Well, I guess so, sir. I got knocked up in this kind of shape doing service for Uncle Sam."