"In five minutes after we meet--there won't be a shoe-string left fit to
use."
The dark face flashed with a strange light from the depths of the somber
eyes--only for an instant did he lose self-control. His voice was velvet
when he spoke.
"Your faith is strong, M'sieur!"
"It's not faith--we know. One Southerner can whip three Yankees any
day."
"But suppose it should turn out that he had to whip five or six or a
dozen?"
"Don't you think these fellows could do it?"
Socola hesitated. It was a shame to pull down a faith that could remove
mountains. He shrugged his slender shoulders and a pensive look stole
over his face. He seemed to be talking to himself.
"Your President tells me that his soldiers will do all that pluck and
muscle, endurance and dogged courage, dash and red-hot patriotism can
accomplish. And yet his view is not sanguine. A sad undertone I caught
in his voice. He says your war will be long and bloody--"
"Yes--I know," Dick broke in, "but nobody agrees with him. We'll show
old Jeff what we can do, if he'll just give us _one_ chance--that's all
we ask--just _one_ chance. Read that editorial in the Richmond
_Examiner_--"
He thrust a copy of the famous yellow journal of the South into Socola's
hand and pointed to a marked paragraph:
"From mountain top and valleys to the shores of the seas there is one
wild shout of fierce resolve to capture Washington City at all and every
human hazard!"
The North was marching southward with ropes and handcuffs with which to
end in triumph their holiday excursion on July 4.
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