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 “Yes, to yourself.” The Captain was oddly moved. He took his hands off the script, walked a little away from the table, came back to it. “It— ah—may explain a good many things that—er—may have puzzled you.” He cleared his throat and shifted his subject briskly. “We ought to be thinking about a publisher. What publisher shall we have publish these reminiscences? Make some stir in Tennessee's political circles, Peter; tremendous sales; clear up questions everybody is interested in. H-m—well, I'll walk down town and you”—he motioned to the script—“begin copying—”

“By the way, Captain,” said Peter as the old gentleman turned for the door, “has Rose said anything to you yet?”

The old man detached his mind from his script with an obvious effort.

“What about?”

“About leaving your service.”

“No-o, not especially; she's always leaving my service.”

“But in this case it was my fault; at least I brought it about. I remonstrated with her about taking your left-over victuals and socks and handkerchiefs and things. She was quite offended.”

“Yes, it always offends her,” agreed the old man, impatiently. “I never mention it myself unless I catch her red-handed; then I storm a little to keep her in bounds.”