It was nearing nine o’clock. Colonel Elliott glanced at his watch, and then leaned back in his chair with the comfortable consciousness that his evening’s work was over. One by one he had gone through the pile of papers that he had found upon his desk. He had written, “Respectfully forwarded, approved,” upon each in its turn, and now they were ready to go to the adjutant, to be entered up and sent along upon their sluggish travels “through channels.”
The colonel gathered the scattered documents into a bunch, snapped a rubber band about them, and then called, “Orderly!”
“Take these papers to the adjutant,” said the chief, as a soldier stepped promptly into the room, with his hand at his cap. “Then find Major Pollard, and say to him, with my compliments, that I’d like him to report to me here.”
The orderly saluted, and disappeared. The colonel bit the tip from a cigar, lighted it, and then drew from his pocket a half dozen letters. Rapidly running through them, he picked out one, tossed it upon his desk, and then, letting his head fall back, he fixed his eyes upon the ceiling, and smoked away in thoughtful silence.
Along the broad corridors of the armory echoed the steady tramp of feet, the rattle of arms, and the sharp commands of the line officers, for it was a regular drill-night of The Third, and four of the regiment’s twelve companies were at work in the great hall lying beyond the administrative rooms. Presently, above the hum of the other sounds, the colonel heard quick, firm footsteps approaching his door, and in a moment Major Pollard and Van Sickles, of the staff, came into the room.
“You sent for me, Colonel?” said the major, inquiringly.
“Yes,” said the chief, adding, as Van Sickles made a motion as if to withdraw, “I’d like to have you stay, Van. I’ve something to tell that’ll answer a question you once asked me.”
Both drew up chairs. The colonel passed over his cigar case, and then said, “A year ago you fellows got me to talking, one night up in The Battery, about something that happened while I was out with the ‘Old Regiment.’ As I recall it, I told you a yarn about the resurrection of Bob Sheldon, and you, Van, asked me, when I’d finished, what had become of Bob since the war. Do you remember?”
“Sheldon?” said Van Sickles. “Oh, yes. He was the man that was brained by a splinter of shell, and afterwards came to time all right. Your old captain, wasn’t he? Yes, I remember.”
“Well,” said the colonel slowly, “I had a letter from him this morning—and he’s dead.”