He was suddenly aware that some one was standing at his side, and when he looked down he saw that it was General Chick. The boy, too, was staring at the colors.
“Ain’t it beautiful?” he asked.
“Chick,” was the reply, “I feel this morning that that flag is the most beautiful thing in the world, and that every American citizen should love it.”
“And,” added Chick, “should ought to want to be a soldier an’ fight under it. That’s what I’ve been wanting to be; but lately I’m kind o’ discouraged.”
“Why discouraged, Chick?”
“Oh, I’m afraid I won’t never git into the Guard now. It feels as though somethin’s gone wrong inside o’ me.”
McCormack looked down at the boy, at his gray face, his hollow eyes, his sunken cheeks, at the evidences of physical pain with which his countenance was marked, and he felt a sudden pity for him.
“You’re not well, Chick,” he said; “you ought not to be here.”
“I know,” was the labored reply. “But I couldn’t help comin’. I heard about it, an’ I got up an’ come away while the old woman was asleep.”
A wan smile spread over his face at the memory of his diplomatic escape.