CHAPTER XXI
THE CALL TO SERVICE
We go to rear a wall of men on Freedom's Southern line,
And plant beside the cotton-tree the rugged Northern pine!
—WHITTIER.
"Phil Baronet, you thon of a horthe-thief, where have you been keeping yourthelf? We've been waiting here thinthe Thummer before latht to meet you."
That was Bud Anderson's greeting. Pink-cheeked, sturdy, and stubby as a five-year-old, he was standing in my path as I slipped from my horse in front of old Fort Hays one October day a fortnight after the rescue of Colonel Forsyth's little company.
"Bud, you tow-headed infant, how the dickens and tomhill did you manage to break into good society out here?" I cried, as we clinched in each other's arms, for Bud's appearance was food to my homesick hunger.
"When you git through, I'm nixt into the barber's chair."
I had not noticed O'mie leaning against a post beside the way, until that Irish brogue announced him.
"Why, boys, what's all this delegation mean?"
"Aw," O'mie drawled. "You've been elected to Congress and we're the proud committy av citizens in civilians' clothes, come to inform you av your elevation."