"Look at me!"
The Colonel turned. There, his face and hands in a tremble, but all exultant, stood G. W. in the uniform of the Ninth. The coat was buttoned crooked, the cap, which G. W. had discovered at the bottom of the box, was hind part before—but what of that? In all the army of the great Republic was no manlier soldier than the little fellow who now faced his Colonel with a look of rapture on his round, dusky face.
"Comrade, give us your hand!" There was a mistiness in the Colonel's eyes, a queer chokiness in his voice. "You'll never disgrace the uniform, my boy,—it isn't in you to do it!"
G. W. saluted, and then gravely placed his hand in Colonel Austin's.
"Dese clo'es," he said, "are jes' goin' to help make me a hero for sho! An', Colonel, I'se goin' ter take care ob you jis' like de Boy an' his Mother tole me. I is sho! Nothin' ain't goin' to happen 'long o' you while George Washington McKinley Jones knows what hisself am about! I'se goin' ter put dis letter in my breas'-pocket, an' it's goin' ter stay right plumb ober my heart, till I take yer back to dem two all right! Now, sah, let me show de boys. Lawd! I clar if my mammy"—the proud smile quivered—"should see me, I jes' reckon de visions she'd have would make her trimble!"
III.
THE LITTLE GAUNTLET AND SWORD.
The sunlight beat down upon Tampa until every man in camp shed his coat in despair, but not one button did G. W. unfasten!
He strutted and sweltered, and complained not. He gave daily exhibitions of his sharp-shooting—which, by the way, was an accomplishment truly remarkable. For the first time in his life he was absolutely and perfectly happy.