"All right," I replied, laughing again. "You're my commanding officer, and if you order me to consider you a relic, why, I must, I suppose. Perhaps it may comfort you to know that the boys conversationally refer to you as 'the old man.'"
"There, enough of that," said the colonel, as we stepped upon the planking of the long piazza. "What's the use of discussing my infirmities? Now, how shall we kill time this forenoon? Billiards? No, hardly; it's too good a day to waste indoors. I'll tell you what we'll do, my boy: we'll go over to Hampton and take a look at the old fellows in the 'Home.' Which shall it be, drive or walk?"
"Walk," said I promptly, as I felt the fresh, salt breeze come stealing in from off the water; "yes, we'll walk, unless at your advanced age you don't feel quite up to the exertion."
"Walk it is, then," said the colonel, ignoring my attempt to pay proper deference to his accumulated years. "Just wait a second, though; I must fill my pockets before we start. I like to lay a trail of cigars when I go among the old boys," and with this he disappeared into the hotel, from which he emerged a moment later, bearing a paper of weeds which, he explained, were not rankly poisonous for open-air smoking, though they might involve some unpleasant consequences if lighted within-doors.
We set off at a swinging gait along the road, and in something less than half an hour found ourselves at the entrance of the well-kept grounds in which are clustered the buildings of the Soldiers' Home. It is a beautiful place, that quiet spot by the southern sea, and I never could tire of strolling along its flower-bordered walks, and among its sunny nooks and corners. And yet, even in the midst of the brightest sunshine, one cannot escape the thought that the hundreds upon hundreds of gray-haired, feeble men who throng these grounds have come here, after all, only to die, and are waiting—waiting until it shall be their turn to be carried out to the great graveyard which, with its acres and acres of white headstones, lies but a few short steps outside the gates. It is a thought that somehow seems to dim the sunshine a little, and though the place is wonderfully picturesque, and wears an outward air of ease and comfort, yet I, for one, never can be there without feeling almost awe-stricken at the remembrance of what it all means.
"Now, Jack," said the colonel, as we walked leisurely along the broad, hard roadway, which runs parallel with the blue waters of Hampton Roads, "keep an eye out for 'blue Maltees,' for that's the particular breed of cats we're after."
"All right," I replied, interpreting this command to mean that I was to be on the watch for veterans wearing the badge of the old 19th Army Corps—the blue Maltese cross; a device which we of the Third still retain, in memory of the days when the "Old Regiment" won its renown. "White diamonds, red crescents, and stars of every color seem to be plenty, Colonel, but, so far as I can see, 'Maltees' are at a premium."
"Oh, we shall find one," said the colonel, "we surely shall find one. There are rows upon rows of them lying quietly over yonder," with a nod towards the flag floating above the cemetery, "but they are not yet all mustered out. There's one now, over on that bench. See him?"
Yes, I saw him; a short, wiry man; a man with whitened hair, keen gray eyes, a sharply-pointed nose, and a clean-shaven face whose every line and wrinkle betokened shrewdness and native wit. At the first brief glance I knew him for a Yankee, a thoroughbred old New Englander.