"Why, good morning to you!" the Colonel replied. He was always tender with sick soldiers, women, and children, and the pathetic little figure before him touched his sympathy. "Who are you, my small friend?"
"George Washington McKinley Jones, sah."
"Just so; and where are your folks?"
"No folks any more, sah. Daddy he done got put in prison fur life, sah, 'cos he killed a frien' of his, an' my mammy she done died yesterday. I jus' come from her buryin', sah." Two slow tears fell from the soft brown eyes and rolled over the stained cheeks.
Colonel Austin's throat grew dry, as it always did when he looked upon suffering things bearing pain and trouble bravely.
"And why do you come here, my child?" he asked kindly.
"I likes de look ob your face, sah, an' I'se hungry—I'se starved, I is—an' 'sides I want work!"
The boy certainly was not over nine, and was undersized and childish-looking even for that.
"Work!" smiled the grave Colonel, "what in the world can you do?"
"Why, sah, I'se de best shot you ebber saw; I reckon I'se what you call a real crack shot; dat's what I am, sah!"