He stopped me
on the street a day or two before the unveiling and told me he had
a piece of good news: the remnant of his old company was to be here;
he had got hold of the last one, -- there were nine of them left, --
and he had his old jacket that he had worn in the war, and he was going
to wear it on the march. "It's worn, of course," he said, "but my mother
put some patches over the holes, and except for the stain on it
it's in good order. I believe I am the only one of the boys that has
his jacket still; my mother kept this for me; I have never got so hard up
as to part with it. I'm all right now. I mean to be buried in it."
I had never remarked before what a refined face he had;
his enthusiasm made him look younger than I had ever seen him.
I saw him on the day before the eve of the unveiling; he was as busy as a bee,
and looked almost handsome. "The boys are coming in by every train," he said.
"Look here." He pulled me aside, and unbuttoned his vest.
A piece of faded gray cloth was disclosed. He had the old gray jacket on
under his other coat. "I know the boys will like to see it," he said.
"I'm going down to the train now to meet one -- Binford Terrell.
I don't know whether I shall know him. Binford and I used to be
much of a size.
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