The Wounded Veteran
A party of Northern tourists passed through Houston the other day, and while their train was waiting at the depot an old colored man, with one arm bandaged and hung in an old red handkerchief for a sling, walked along the platform.
“What’s the matter with your arm, uncle?” called out one of the tourists.
“It was hurt in de wah, sah. Hab you any ’bacco you could gib a po’ ole niggah, sah?”
Several of the tourists poked their heads out of the car windows to listen, and in a few moments the old darky had taken up a collection in his hat, consisting of a plug of tobacco, three or four cigars, and sundry nickels, dimes, and quarters.
“How were you wounded?” asked a tourist. “Were you shot in the arm?”
“No, sah; hit wusn’t exac’ by a shot.”
“Piece of shell strike you?”
“No, sah; wusn’t a shell.”
“Bayonet wound, maybe?”