"So you're George Jinks' nephew, are you? Are you goin' to be a
captain? Do tell! I read about it in the Slowburgh _Herald_ last week.
I'm real glad to see you. You're the first officer I've seen in ten
years except the recruiting officer last week."
"Did they have a recruiting officer here, in Slowburgh?" asked Sam.
"Yes, they did, and there was thirteen fellers wanted to go, but he
only took five of 'em, and they hain't gone yet. The rest was too short
or too fat or too thin or something."
"Didn't any more men want to go than that?"
"No," said the old man. "They all want to wear soldier-clothes, but
they don't all want to go fighting. They've got up a militia battalion
for them now, and 'most everybody in town's got a uniform. I hadn't
seen a uniform in the county before in I don't know how long--except
firemen, I should say."
"I'm so glad they've got them now," cried Sam. "Doesn't it improve the
looks of the place? It's so much more homelike and-d-d glorious, don't
you think so?"
The old man had no opportunity to reply, as the 'bus now drew up at the
front door of the principal hotel. The commercial traveler got out
first and went into the house; the old man followed, and turning to Sam
as he passed him, he said with a glance at the vanishing stranger:
"He's a copperhead, that feller."
He went on toward the bar-room door, but called back as he went:
"If you get lonesome over at Jinks', come in here in the evening.
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