"I selected it for you, and you may be sure it is a good one. It won't be any handsomer, but, if you use it well, it won't be really much the worse, for going through a campaign or two with you. For it is with drums as it is with the drummers; they grow old, and get some honorable scratches, and some unlucky bruises, and now and then a broken head; but, God prospering them, they come out, at last, ugly to look at, perhaps" (the veteran stroked his mustache), "but well-seasoned, and sound, and very truly at your service."
Frank thought be saw a tear in his twinkling gray eye, and he was so much affected by it, that he caught his hand in both of his, exclaiming, "Bless you, dear sir! Dear, good sir, God bless you!"
The old man winked away the moisture from his eye, smiling still, but with a quivering lip, and patted him gently on the shoulder, without saying a word.
Frank had the sense to perceive that the interview was now over; the veteran wished to be left alone; and, with the new drum at his side, he left the tent, proud and happy, and wishing in his heart that he could do something for that singular, kind old man.
As Frank was hastening to his tent, he was met by one of the captains in his regiment, who, seeing the bright beaming face and new drum, accosted him.
"So, you are a drummer boy—are you?"
"Yes, sir, I am learning to be one," said Frank, modestly.
Now, these two had seen each other often in camp and the captain had always regarded Frank with a smile of interest and kindness, and Frank (as he wrote home) had "always liked the looks of the captain first-rate."
"I saw you, I think, the day you came here," said the captain. "You had some curls then. What has become of them?"
Frank's lip twitched, and he cast down his eyes, ashamed to betray any lingering feeling on that subject.