In the meantime they had arrived at the guard house. The Sergeant stepped back, took the store keeper roughly by the shoulders, and shoved him up in front of a tall, magisterial-looking man wearing a Captain's straps, who stood frowning before the door.
"Search him," said the Captain briefly.
The Sergeant went through the storekeeper's pockets with a deftness that bespoke experience. He produced a small amount of money, some of it in fractional currency and Confederate notes, a number of papers, a plug of tobacco, and some other articles. He handed these to the Captain, who hastily looked over them, handed back the tobacco and other things and the small change.
"Give these back to him," he said briefly. "Turn the rest of the money over to the hospital fund. Where's our barber? Shave his head, call up the fifers and drummers, and drum him out of camp at once. I haven't time to waste on him."
Before he had done speaking the guards had the storekeeper seated on a log, and were shearing his hair.
"General," shouted the Deacon.
"That's a Cap'n, you fool," said one of the guards.
"Captain, then," yelled the Deacon.
"Who is that man?" said the Captain severely.
"He's his partner," said the Lieutenant.