"That'd be me, Grandpa. That's the way I'd do." And as the grandfather
nodded, seeming to agree, a thought recently dismissed returned to the
mind of the composite procession and he asked:
"Well, _why_ weren't you ever afraid the Rebels would whip the Unions,
Grandpa?"
"Oh, we knew they couldn't."
"I guess so." The little boy laughed disdainfully, thinking his question
satisfactorily answered. "I guess those ole Rebels couldn't whipped a
flea! They didn't know how to fight any at all, did they, Grandpa?"
"Oh, yes, they did!"
"What?" The boy was astounded. "Weren't they all just reg'lar ole
cowards, Grandpa?"
"No," said the grandfather. "They were pretty fine soldiers."
"They were? Well, they ran away whenever you began shootin' at 'em,
didn't they?"
"Sometimes they did, but most times they didn't. Sometimes they fought
like wildcats--and sometimes we were the ones that ran away."
"What for?"
"To keep from getting killed, or maybe to keep from getting captured."
"But the Rebels were bad men, weren't they, Grandpa?"
"No.
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