Andrew the Glad

"And then, Major, hell broke loose! Dave stood up and--" Tom Cantrell's

eyes snapped and he slashed with his crop at the bright andirons that

held the flamed logs.

"No, Major, it wasn't hell that broke up, it was something inside me. I

felt it smash. For a moment I didn't grasp what Taylor was saying. It

sounded so like the ravings of an insane phonograph that I was for being

amused, but when I found that he was actually advising the mayor to

refuse our committee the use of the hay market for a bivouac during the

Confederate reunion, I just got up and took his speech and fed it to him

raw. I saw red with a touch of purple and I didn't know I was on my feet

and--"

"Major," interrupted Andrew Sevier, his eyes bright as those of Kildare

and his quiet voice under perfect control, "Judge Taylor's exact words

were that it seemed inadvisable to turn over property belonging to the

city for the use of parties that could in no way be held responsible. He

elucidated his excuse by saying that the Confederate soldiers were so old

now that they were better off at home than parading the streets and

inciting rebellious feelings in the children, throwing the city into

confusion by their disorderly conduct and--"

"That's all he said, Major, that's all. I was on my feet then and all

that needs to be said and done to him was said and done right there. I

said it and Phoebe and Mrs. Peyton Kendrick did it as they walked right

past him and out of the chamber of commerce hall of committees while he

was trying to answer me. That broke up the meeting and he can't be found

this morning. Cap has had Tom looking for him. I think when we find him

we will have a few more words of remonstrance with him!" said Dave

quietly. And he stood straight and tall before the major, and as he threw

back his head he was most commanding. There was an expression of power in

the face of David Kildare that the major had never seen there before.

He balanced his glasses in his hands a moment and looked keenly at the

four young men lined up before him. They made a very forceful

typification of the new order of things and were rather magnificent

in their defense of the old. The major's voice tightened in his throat

before he could say what they were waiting to hear.

"Boys," he said, and his old face lit with one of its rare smiles,

"there were live sparks in these gray ashes--or we could not have bred

you. I'm thinking you, yourselves, justify the existence of us old

Johnnies and give us a clear title to live a little while longer,

reunite once a year, sing the old songs, speechify, parade, bivouac a few

more times together--and be as disorderly as we damn please, in this or

any other city's hay market. Tom, telephone Cap to go straight to the

bivouac headquarters and have them get ready to get out a special edition

of the _Gray Picket_. If reports of this matter are sent out over the

South without immediate and drastic refutations there will be a

conflagration of thousands of old fire-eaters. They will never live

through the strain. Andrew, take David up to your rooms, send for a

stenographer and get together as much of that David Kildare speech as

you can. Hobson, get hold of the stenographer of the city council and get

his report of both Taylor's and Potts' speeches. Choke it out of him for

I suspect they have both attempted to have them destroyed."