Stephen grew red.  By this time the car was full, and silent.  No one had offered to quarrel with the Major.  Nor did it seem likely that any one would.

“I’m afraid I can’t go, sir.”

“Why not?” demanded Mr. Sherman.

“Because, sir,” said the Judge, bluntly, “his mother’s a widow, and they have no money.  He was a lieutenant in one of Blair’s companies before the call came.”

The Major looked at Stephen, and his expression changed.

“Find it pretty hard?” he asked.

Stephen’s expression must have satisfied him, but he nodded again, more vigorously than before.

“Just you wait, Mr. Brice,” he said.  “It won’t hurt you any.”

Stephen was grateful.  But he hoped to fall out of the talk.  Much to his discomfiture, the Major gave him another of those queer looks.  His whole manner, and even his appearance, reminded Stephen strangely of Captain Elijah Brent.

“Aren’t you the young man who made the Union speech in Mercantile Library Hall?”

“Yes, sir,” said the Judge.  “He is.”

At that the Major put out his hand impulsively, and gripped Stephen’s.

“Well, sir,” he said, “I have yet to read a more sensible speech, except some of Abraham Lincoln’s.  Brinsmade gave it to me to read.  Whipple, that speech reminded me of Lincoln.  It was his style.  Where did you get it, Mr. Brice?” he demanded.

“I heard Mr. Lincoln’s debate with Judge Douglas at ’Freeport,” said Stephen; beginning to be amused.

The Major laughed.

“I admire your frankness, sir,” he said.  “I meant to say that its logic rather than its substance reminded one of Lincoln.”

“I tried to learn what I could from him, Major Sherman.”

At length the car stopped, and they passed into the Arsenal grounds.  Drawn up in lines on the green grass were four regiments, all at last in the blue of their country’s service.  Old soldiers with baskets of cartridges were stepping from file to file, giving handfuls to the recruits.  Many of these thrust them in their pockets, for there were not enough belts to go around.  The men were standing at ease, and as Stephen saw them laughing and joking lightheartedly his depression returned.  It was driven away again by Major Sherman’s vivacious comments.  For suddenly Captain Lyon, the man of the hour, came into view.

“Look at him!” cried the Major, “he’s a man after my own heart.  Just look at him running about with his hair flying in the wind, and the papers bulging from his pockets.  Not dignified, eh, Whipple?  But this isn’t the time to be dignified.  If there were some like Lyon in Washington, our troops would be halfway to New Orleans by this time.  Don’t talk to me of Washington!  Just look at him!”

The gallant Captain was a sight, indeed, and vividly described by Major Sherman’s picturesque words as he raced from regiment to regiment, and from company to company, with his sandy hair awry, pointing, gesticulating, commanding.  In him Stephen recognized the force that had swept aside stubborn army veterans of wavering faith, that snapped the tape with which they had tied him.