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Corporal Speck replaced the knapsack in its place at the very bottom, put the tray back in its place, closed the trunk and locked it and shoved it under the bed. The trunk resisted slightly and he lost one carpet slipper and considerable breath in the struggle. Limping back to the kitchen and seeing that little Miss Engel still slumbered, he eased his frame into a chair and composed himself to literary composition, not in the least disturbed by the shouts of roistering sidewalk comedians that filtered up to him from down below in front of the house, or by the distant clatter of intermittent traffic over the cobbly spine of Second Avenue, half a block away. For some time he wrote, with a most scratchy pen; and this is what he wrote:

“TO THE EDITOR OF THE SUN, CITY.

“Dear Sir: The undersigned would state that he served two years
and nine months–until wounded in action–in the Fighting Two
Hundred and Tenth New York Infantry, and has been much interested
to see what other comrades wrote for the papers regarding same in
connection with the Rebellion War of North and South respectively.
I would state that during the battle of Chickamauga I was for a
while lying near by to a Confederate soldier–name unknown–who
was dying on account of a wound in the chest. By his request I
gave him a drink of water from my canteen, he dying shortly
thereafter. Being myself wounded–right knee shattered by a
Minie ball–I was removed to a field hospital; but before doing
so I brought away this man’s knapsack for a keepsake of the
occasion. Some years later I found in said knapsack a letter,
which previous to then was overlooked by me. I inclose herewith a
copy of said letter, which it may be interesting for reading
purposes by surviving comrades.

“Respectfully yours,

“JACOB SPECK,

“Late Corporal L Company,

“Fighting Two Hundred and Tenth New York, U. S. A.”

With deliberation and squeaky emphasis the pen progressed slowly across the paper, while the corporal, with his left hand, held flat the dead man’s ancient letter before him, intent on copying it. Hard words puzzled him and long words daunted him, and he was making a long job of it when there were steps in the hall without. There entered breezily Miss Hortense Engel, who was the oldest of all the multiplying Engels, pretty beyond question and every inch American, having the gift of wearing Lower Sixth Avenue stock designs in a way to make them seem Upper Fifth Avenue models. Miss Engel’s face was pleasantly flushed; she had just parted lingeringly from her steady company, whose name was Mr. Lawrence J. McLaughlin, in the lower hallway, which is the trysting place and courting place of tenement-dwelling sweethearts, and now she had come to make ready the family’s cold Sunday night tea. At sight of her the corporal had another inspiration–his second within the hour. His brow smoothed and he fetched a sigh of relief.

“‘Lo, grosspops!” she said. “How’s every little thing? The kiddo all right?”

She unpinned a Sunday hat that was plumed like a hearse and slipped on a long apron that covered her from Robespierre bib to hobble hem.

“Girl,” said her grandfather, “would you make tomorrow for me at the office a copy of this letter on the typewriter machine?”

He spoke in German and she answered in New-Yorkese, while her nimble fingers wrestled with the task of back-buttoning her apron.

“Sure thing! It won’t take hardly a minute to rattle that off. Funny-looking old thing!” she went on, taking up the creased and faded original. “Who wrote it? And whatcher goin’ to do with it, grosspops?”

“That,” he told her, “is mine own business! It is for you, please, to make the copy and bring both to me tomorrow, the letter and also the copy.”