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“This sounded so much like sense that I asked him how much a man ought to stand from a woman. ‘Stand, sir?’ he said; ‘why, everything, everything that does not take away his self-respect.’ I said I believed if he’d let a woman do it she’d wipe her shoes on him. ‘Why, of course she will,’ he said, ‘and why shouldn’t she? A man is not good enough for a good woman to wipe her shoes on. But if she’s the right sort of a woman she won’t do it in company, and she won’t let others do it at all; she’ll keep you for her own wiping.'”

“There’s a lot of sense in that, Lesponts,” said one of his auditors, at which there was a universal smile of assent. Lesponts said he had found it out, and proceeded.

“Well, we got to a little town in Virginia, I forget the name of it, where we had to stop a short time. The Captain had told me that his home was not far from there, and his old company was raised around there. Quite a number of the old fellows lived about there yet, he said, and he saw some of them nearly every time he passed through, as they ‘kept the run of him.’ He did not know that he’d ‘find any of them out to-day, as it was Christmas, and they would all be at home,’ he said. As the train drew up I went out on the platform, however, and there was quite a crowd assembled. I was surprised to find it so quiet, for at other places through which we had passed they had been having high jinks: firing off crackers and making things lively. Here the crowd seemed to be quiet and solemn, and I heard the Captain’s name. Just then he came out on the platform, and someone called out: ‘There he is, now!’ and in a second such a cheer went up as you never heard. They crowded around the old fellow and shook hands with him and hugged him as if he had been a girl.”

“I suppose you have reference to the time before you were married,” interrupted someone, but Lesponts did not heed him. He went on:

“It seemed the rumor had got out that morning that it was the Captain’s train that had gone off the track and that the Captain had been killed in the wreck, and this crowd had assembled to meet the body. ‘We were going to give you a big funeral, Captain,’ said one old fellow; ‘they’ve got you while you are living, but we claim you when you are dead. We ain’t going to let ’em have you then. We’re going to put you to sleep in old Virginia.’

“The old fellow was much affected, and made them a little speech. He introduced us to them all. He said: ‘Gentlemen, these are my boys, my neighbors and family;’ and then, ‘Boys, these are my friends; I don’t know all their names yet, but they are my friends.’ And we were. He rushed off to send a telegram to his wife in New Orleans, because, as he said afterwards, she, too, might get hold of the report that he had been killed; and a Christmas message would set her up, anyhow. She’d be a little low down at his not getting there, he said, as he had never missed a Christmas-day at home since ’64.

“When dinner-time came he was invited in by pretty nearly everyone in the car, but he declined; he said he had to attend to a matter. I was going in with a party, but I thought the old fellow would be lonely, so I waited and insisted on his dining with me. I found that it had occurred to him that a bowl of eggnogg would make it seem more like Christmas, and he had telegraphed ahead to a friend at a little place to have ‘the materials’ ready. Well, they were on hand when we got there, and we took them aboard, and the old fellow made one of the finest eggnoggs you ever tasted in your life. The rest of the passengers had no idea of what was going on, and when the old chap came in with a big bowl, wreathed in holly, borne by Nick, and the old Captain marching behind, there was quite a cheer. It was offered to the ladies first, of course, and then the men assembled in the smoker and the Captain did the honors. He did them handsomely, too: made us one of the prettiest little speeches you ever heard; said that Christmas was not dependent on the fireplace, however much a roaring fire might contribute to it; that it was in everyone’s heart and might be enjoyed as well in a railway-car as in a hall, and that in this time of change and movement it behooved us all to try and keep up what was good and cheerful and bound us together, and to remember that Christmas was not only a time for merry-making, but was the time when the Saviour of the world came among men to bring peace and good-will, and that we should remember all our friends everywhere. ‘And, gentlemen,’ he said, ‘there are two toasts I always like to propose at this time, and which I will ask you to drink. The first is to my wife.’ It was drunk, you may believe. ‘And the second is, “My friends: all mankind.”‘ This too, was drunk, and just then someone noticed that the old fellow had nothing but a little water in his glass. ‘Why, Captain,’ he said, ‘you are not drinking! that is not fair.’ ‘Well, no, sir,’ said the old fellow, ‘I never drink anything on duty; you see it is one of the regulations and I subscribed them, and, of course, I could not break my word. Nick, there, will drink my share, however, when you are through; he isn’t held up to quite such high accountability.’ And sure enough, Nick drained off a glass and made a speech which got him a handful of quarters. Well, of course, the old Captain owned not only the car, but all in it by this time, and we spent one of the jolliest evenings you ever saw. The glum fellow who had insisted on his rights at Washington made a little speech, and paid the Captain one of the prettiest compliments I ever heard. He said he had discovered that the Captain had given him his own lower berth after he had been so rude to him, and that instead of taking his upper berth as he had supposed he would have done, he had given that to another person and had sat up himself all night. That was I. The old fellow had given the grumbler his ‘lower’ in the smoking-room, and had given me his ‘upper’. The fellow made him a very handsome apology before us all, and the Captain had his own berth that night, you may believe.