The carriages that hung around their maneuvers
were as gay and numerous as the assemblage on a fashionable race course.
Each member of this famous legion went into Richmond with his trunks and
body servant. They, too, were confident of a brief struggle.
A kind fate held fast the dark curtains of the future. The camp was a
picnic ground, and Death was only a specter of the dim unknown.
Just as Socola strolled by the grounds, the camp spied the handsome
figure of young Preston Hampton in a pair of spotless yellow kid gloves.
They caught and rolled him in the dust and spoiled his gloves.
He laughed and took it good naturedly.
The hardier sons of the South held the attention of the keen, observing
eyes with stronger interest. He knew what would become of those trunks
and fine clothes. The thing he wished most to know was the quality and
the temper of the average man in the Southern ranks.
Socola met Dick Welford suddenly face to face, smiled and bowed. Dick
hesitated, returned his recognition and offered his hand.
"Mr. Welford--"
"Signor Socola."
Dick's greeting was a little awkward, but the older man put him at once
at ease with his frank, friendly manners.
"A brave show your _Champ de Mars_, sir!"
"Does look like business, doesn't it?" Dick responded with pride.
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