“I am going on to the other camps this afternoon,” said he. “But I should like a glimpse of your quarters, Stephen, if you will invite me. Your mother would like a careful account of you, and Mr. Whipple, and—your many friends in St. Louis.”
“You will find my tent a little wet, air,” replied Stephen, touched.
Here the General, who had been sitting by watching them with a very curious expression, spoke up.
“That's hospitality for you, Brinsmade!”
Stephen and Mr. Brinsmade made their way across plank and bridge to Stephen's tent, and his mess servant arrived in due time with the package from home. But presently, while they sat talking of many things, the canvas of the fly was thrust back with a quick movement, and who should come stooping in but General Sherman himself. He sat down on a cracker box. Stephen rose confusedly.
“Well, well, Brice,” said the General, winking at Mr. Brinsmade, “I think you might have invited me to the feast. Where are those cigars Mr. Brinsmade was talking about?”
Stephen opened the box with alacrity. The General chose one and lighted it.
“Don't smoke, eh?” he inquired. “Why, yes, sir, when I can.”
“Then light up, sir,” said the General, “and sit down, I've been thinking lately of court-martialing you, but I decided to come 'round and talk it over with you first. That isn't strictly according to the rules of the service. Look here, Mr. Brice, why did you leave St. Louis?”
“They began to draft, sir, and I couldn't stand it any longer.”