Flaunting his hat passionately at the thin columns, the young man
shouted into space: "Outnumbered--outarmed--outequipped--outrationed--but
not outgeneraled, sir, not outsoldiered, not outmanned!"
"You seem a little excited about it. Yet you've had forty years to get
used to it."
"Ah," brandished the young man at the soldiers, a glad battlenote
breaking into his voice, "I'm being addressed by a Yankee, am I?"
"No," said Queed, "you are being addressed by an American."
"That's a fair reply," said the young man; and consented to take his
eyes from the parade a second to glance at the author of it. "Hello!
You're Doc--Mr. Queed, aren't you?"
Queed, surprised, admitted his identity.
"Ye-a-a-a!" said the young man, in a mighty voice. This time he shouted
it directly at a tall old gentleman whose horse was just then dancing
by. The gentleman smiled, and waved his hand at the flaunted Panama.
"A fine-looking man," said Queed.
"My father," said the young man. "God bless his heart!"
"Was your father in the war?"
"Was he in the war? My dear sir, you might say that he was the war. But
you could scrape this town with a fine-tooth comb without finding
anybody of his age that wasn't in the war."
The necessity for a new demonstration checked his speech for a moment.