Crittenden

"Really?"

"Really. Just see that you let me know in time."

Rivers grasped his hand.

"I'll do that."

Next morning rumours were flying. In a week, at least, they would sail.

And still regiments rolled in, and that afternoon Crittenden saw the

regiment come in for which Grafton had been waiting--a picturesque body

of fighting men and, perhaps, the most typical American regiment formed

since Jackson fought at New Orleans. At the head of it rode two men--one

with a quiet mesmeric power that bred perfect trust at sight, the other

with a kindling power of enthusiasm, and a passionate energy, mental,

physical, emotional, that was tireless; each a man among men, and both

together an ideal leader for the thousand Americans at their heels.

Behind them rode the Rough Riders--dusty, travel-stained troopers,

gathered from every State, every walk of labour and leisure, every

social grade in the Union--day labourer and millionaire, clerk and

clubman, college boys and athletes, Southern revenue officers and

Northern policemen; but most of them Westerners--Texan rangers,

sheriffs, and desperadoes--the men-hunters and the men-hunted; Indians;

followers of all political faiths, all creeds--Catholics, Protestants,

Jews; but cowboys for the most part; dare-devils, to be sure, but

good-natured, good-hearted, picturesque, fearless. And Americans--all!

As the last troopers filed past, Crittenden followed them with his eyes,

and he saw a little way off Blackford standing with folded arms on the

edge of a cloud of dust and looking after them too, with his face set as

though he were buried deep in a thousand memories. He started when

Crittenden spoke to him, and the dark fire of his eyes flashed.

"That's where I belong," he said, with a wave of his hand after the

retreating column. "I don't know one of them, and I know them all. I've

gone to college with some; I've hunted, fished, camped, drank, and

gambled with the others. I belong with them; and I'm going with them if

I can; I'm trying to get an exchange now."

"Well, luck to you, and good-by," said Crittenden, holding out his hand.

"I'm going home to-night."

"But you're coming back?"

"Yes."

Blackford hesitated.

"Are you going to join this outfit?"--meaning his own regiment.

"I don't know; this or the Rough Riders."

"Well," Blackford seemed embarrassed, and his manner was almost

respectful, "if we go together, what do you say to our going as

'bunkies'?"

"Sure!"

"Thank you."

The two men grasped hands.

"I hope you will come back."