“Bannister!”
“Here.”
It was the tall straight boy who had slipped quietly into the ranks who responded to this last name. Down the line there went a little murmur of surprise, and before the sergeant could call the next name, one of his soldiers stepped one pace to the front and struck his hand violently against his breast.
The astonished sergeant ceased suddenly to call the roll.
“What’s the matter with you, Sam?” he inquired.
“I want to know,” said Sam, resentment ringing in his voice, “what right Bob Bannister has to be in this company.”
“Why ain’t he got a right?” responded the sergeant.
“Because he’s a traitor,” replied the indignant Sam.
“And his father’s a copperhead,” added another fledgeling soldier, stepping also one pace to the front. Then came from the ranks generally a chorus of protest against the admission of the tall straight youth to the privileges of the drill.
The sergeant, turning appealingly to the captain, who was standing with folded arms at some little distance, said deprecatingly: “It’s none o’ my business. All I got to do is to call the roll. I don’t muster ’em in.”