“To give us an active post in exchange for the Arsenal is not to do us a kindness. We’ve got used to you gentlemen of the ordnance. Your repose has been an inspiration to the community.”
“No irony! The town has always been so good to me and mine that we’ve had no chance for repose.”
“But the Spanish War passed over and never touched you. I don’t believe the powers at Washington knew you were here.”
“Oh yes, they did. They wired me every few hours to count the old guns in the storehouse, until I knew every piece of that old scrap iron by heart. If we’d used those old guns in that war, the row with Spain would have been on a more equal basis.”
“I suppose it would,” said Merriam, who was thinking of something else. “But I’m sorry you’re going to leave. We never quite settled that little question about Shiloh; and I’m convinced that you’re wrong about the Fitz-John Porter case.”
“Well, posterity will settle those questions without us. And would you mind walking over to the office with me—”
“Bless me, I must be going! This was an unpardonable hour for a call.”
“Not in the least; only I’ve another caller over there—Pollock, of the quartermaster’s department, who has been sent out to take charge of the new post site. He’s a nice chap; you must know him.”
“I’ll be very glad, some other time,” said Merriam. “Which way does he come from?”
“He’s a southern boy. Father was a Johnny Reb. Another sign that the war is over and the hatchet buried.”