"I'm told you're a hero, sir," he said.
"No," laughed the lieutenant. "I merely happened to be on the job when something needed to be done, and I did it. However, I can refer you to the simon-pure article." And he pointed out a sergeant with three wound stripes upon his sleeve.
"Not guilty," declared the sergeant, when questioned. Then, his eyes kindling with admiration, he waved toward a figure standing somewhat aside from the throng. "Talk to the major. You couldn't string on a fat man's bay window the medals he's got, and ought to have."
"Nonsense!" ejaculated the major, amusedly.
"That's what you all say!" cried the reporter, in despair. "Is hero-ing a criminal career?"
Chuckling, the major beckoned to an ebony-hued stalwart.
"Rastus," the major said, when the Senegambian saluted and stepped forward, "this gentleman is looking for a hero. I think you are one."
"You might say I am, sah. Dey wasn't a wusser, dangerouser job in de army dan mine."
"What was it?" eagerly inquired the reporter.
"Mistah," Rastus solemnly informed him. "I drove a mule team plumb thoo dis wah."—Terrell Love Holliday.