"Lordy, no, I ain't that old, ef I do look like a scarecrow. No, I fit under Old Hickory at New Orleans. I tell ye, Sonny, them Britishers burnt out Washington fur us but we give 'em a taste o' fire at New Orleans they ain't goin' ter fergit."
"Did we lick 'em good?"
"Boy, ye ain't never heard tell er sich a scrimmage—we thrashed 'em till they warn't no fight in 'em, an' they scrambled back aboard them ships an' skeddaddled home. Britishers can't fight nohow. We've licked 'em twice an' we kin lick 'em agin. But the old soldier that does the fightin'—everybody fergits him!"
The Boy looked longingly at his string of fish for a moment with the pride of his heart, and then held up his treasure.
"You can have my fish if ye want 'em; they'll make you a nice supper."
The old soldier stroked the tangled hair and took his string of fish.
"You're a fine boy! I won't fergit you, Sonny!"
The words comforted him until he neared the house. And then a sense of bitter loss welled up in spite of all.
"Did I do right, Ma?" he asked wistfully.
She placed her hand on his forehead: