The doctor came in.  A man was with him.  The man had a book in his hand—­a book and a pencil.

Now I could see some gilt badges on the doctor’s collar.  On his arms were some gilt stripes—­and gilt stripes on the arms of the other man also.  These men must be officers, I thought, perhaps officers of the Citadel battalion[5].  I wondered what I should be doing in their world.  Then again came the thought that I had been unconscious, and for how long I did not know.

[5] “The Citadel” is the Military Academy of South Carolina in Charleston. [ED.]

But, no; it can be nothing else than a dream!

The man with the book wrote something in it.  Then he showed the book to the doctor, and gave him the pencil.  The doctor wrote in the book, and gave the pencil and the book back to the man.  The man with the book went out of the tent.

The doctor came to me.  He raised his right hand as high as his shoulder.  The first finger and the middle finger were stretched out; the other fingers were closed.  He was smiling.  I looked at his hand and at his face, and wondered.

He said, “Look!  How many?”

I said, “Two.”

He laughed aloud.  “I thought so; we’re getting on—­we’re doing famously.”

He sat down by me, on some sort of a stool—­one of those folding stools.  He began to dress my head.

“Your name is Jones?” he asked.

“Yes,” I replied, wondering, yet pleased with the sign of good-will shown by his calling me by my first name.

“What edge are you?”

I was silent.  I did not understand the question.

“What edge are you?” he repeated.

I was not so sure this time that I had heard aright.  Possibly he had used other words, but his speech sounded to me as if he said, “What edge are you?”

I thought he was meaning to ask my age.

I replied, “Twenty-one.”  My voice was strange to me.

“You mean the twenty-first?” he asked.

“I am in my twenty-second,” I said.

“The twenty-second what?” said he.

“Year,” said I, greatly astonished.

He smiled, then suddenly became serious, and went away.

After a while he came back.  “Do you know what I asked you?” he inquired.

“No,” said I.

“Then why did you say twenty-one and twenty-second?”

“That is my age,” said I.

“Oh!” said he; “but I did not ask your age.  You did not hear?”

“No,” said I.

“What is your reg-i-ment?” he asked very distinctly.

Now it was clear enough that all this thing was a dream.  For a man in real life to ask such a question, it was impossible.  I felt relieved of many fears.

“What are you smiling at?” he asked.

“I’ve been dreaming,” I said.

“And your dream was pleasant?”

“No,” said I.

“You smile then at unpleasant things?”