The colonel himself mustered him in, and I stood by during the ceremony. Sam stood erect and motionless, and with uplifted hand swore "to bear true faith and allegiance to the Commonwealth of Massachusetts," and after he had slowly repeated the closing words of the military oath—"I do also solemnly swear that I will support the constitution of the United States. So help me God"—he let fall his hand, and said, "It's close onto thirty years, Cunnel, sence I said them words, an' th' last time I said 'em they meant a good deal t' me. But they aint lost none o' their meanin'—an' if this reg'ment ever has t' go out I'll go with it, though I'd a darn sight ruther be at th' trail of a gun than go t' foolin' with a muskit at my time o' life."
Later in the evening I happened to see Sam's muster rolls lying upon the colonel's desk, and out of curiosity glanced through them. "Name: Farwell, Samuel," I read, "Rank: Private (Hdq'rs Orderly). Age: 65 years. Occupation: Gentleman. Remarks: Private, Corporal, Sergeant; Burdett's (N. H.) Light Battery, U.S. Vols., 1861-65; Medal of Honor for distinguished bravery." With my finger upon the column in which Sam's occupation was recorded as that of "Gentleman," I looked inquiringly at the colonel, who answered my unspoken question with—"That's right enough, Jack. In the first place, he's a soldier, and you ought to know that the profession of the soldier is the profession of the gentleman. In the second place, he wasn't doing anything for a living when we found him—and that surely is gentlemanly. And lastly, he is a gentleman, every inch of him, and I'll thank you not to question it."
OUR HORSE "ACME"
[OUR HORSE "ACME."]
The paymaster piled up a neat little heap of documentary odds and ends, shoved it to one side, and banged down upon it a heavy paper-weight. Then he slammed together the thick, leathern covers of the regimental roll-book, and by sheer force of muscle hoisted that precious and ponderous volume up to its appointed resting-place. And finally, after he had sent crashing down the lid of his desk, he thrust his hands into his pockets, drew a long breath, and looked over towards the adjoining desk, where the colonel sat writing.
For a minute or so, after this racket had subsided, the scratching of the colonel's pen steadily continued, but finally there came a long, rasping sound of steel upon paper, denoting the flourish at the end of a signature, and the colonel reached for the blotter, saying, as he applied it to the writing before him, "So you've concluded to call it a day's work, eh? Well, why couldn't you say so, instead of making row enough to raise the dead and deafen the living? I take it that your infernal old rolls are straightened out at last."