Afterwards, I told Jot of the sale of Jack to Colonel Walker, and that I believed he was in the same encampment. But Jot said he had learned that he was in one of the more Southern camps—perhaps Camp Green, in North Carolina.
“Why was it,” I queried, “that you did not tell Uncle Jim or me where you were going?”
To this he replied, “Though your uncle did not tell me not to let you know that I was going to enlist, he intimated very plainly that he did not want you to know. He said, ‘If David knows where you have gone, there’ll be no living with him; and he will follow you as sure as you stand there.’” I was quite angry with uncle at first, but when Jot said, “I think he did what he thought was best,” I saw, in part, an excuse for him.
Among other things that I learned, during my soldier experience, was one, that trouble is often brewing when we feel the safest. Now it was about to overtake me and my dog. I was showing off Muddy’s accomplishments one day to some dog admirers, when an officer came up and inquired: “Whose dog is that?”
“He is mine!” I proudly replied, “isn’t he a dandy, Mister?”
“You must address officers by their title, he said stiffly, and salute them.”
I had been so engaged, that I had not observed before, that he was an officer. I at once stood at attention and saluted.
He glanced at me seemingly through and through and then, as though satisfied, said, returning the salute,
“About that dog—just keep him out of sight and there will be no trouble;” and then as Muddy came fawning on him, patted him and passed on.
“That,” said one of the men, “is a West Pointer. He is as full of rules and orders as a book on tactics.”