“Oh, it’s you, is it?” said the sentry, stopping in his flight. The captain strode angrily toward him.
“What do you mean by firing like that? Don’t you know enough to ask for the counter-sign before shooting?”
“Sure, I forgot about it, captain, entirely. But, then, ye see, I never can hit anything; so it’s little difference it makes.”
The shot had roused the camp, and there was now wild commotion, everybody thinking the Canadians were upon them.
A strange sight met the eye of Yates and Renmark. Both were astonished to see the number of men that O’Neill had under his command. They found a motley crowd. Some tattered United States uniforms were among them, but the greater number were dressed as ordinary individuals, although a few had trimmings of green braid on their clothes. Sleeping out for a couple of nights had given the gathering the unkempt appearance of a great company of tramps. The officers were indistinguishable from the men at first, but afterward Yates noticed that they, mostly in plain clothes and slouch hats, had sword belts buckled around them; and one or two had swords that had evidently seen service in the United States cavalry.
“It’s all right, boys,” cried the captain to the excited mob. “It was only that fool Lynch who fired at us. There’s nobody hurt. Where’s the general?”
“Here he comes,” said half a dozen voices at once, and the crowd made way for him.
General O’Neill was dressed in ordinary citizen’s costume, and did not wear even a sword belt. On his head of light hair was a black soft felt hat. His face was pale, and covered with freckles. He looked more like a clerk from a grocery store than the commander of an army. He was evidently somewhere between thirty-five and forty years of age.
“Oh, it’s you, is it?” he said. “Why are you back? Any news?”
The captain saluted, military fashion, and replied: