In a voice that was no encouragement to confession he
dared 'the drooling idiot' to declare himself. In a moment he
opened his waistcoat and surveyed the damage.
'Look at that!' he went on, complainingly. 'Ugh! The reeking,
filthy, slobbering idiot! I'd rather be slain with the jaw bone
of an ass.'
'You'll have to get another shirt,' said the pressman, who stood
near. 'You can't go to Washington with such a breast pin.'
'I'd breast pin him if I knew who he was,' said the editor.
A number of us followed him downstairs and a young man went
up the Bowery for a new shirt. When it came the Printer took off
the soiled garment, flinging it into a corner, and I helped him to put
himself in proper fettle again. This finished, he ran away,
hurriedly, with his carpet-bag, and I missed the opportunity I
wanted for a brief talk with him.
Chapter 39
My regiment left New York by night in a flare of torch and rocket.
The streets were lined with crowds now hardened to the sound of
fife and drum and the pomp of military preparation.
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