"O, yah!" said the colonel; "very well. It vas an awful time."

"I went to your headquarters with information of vital importance. One of your soldiers _had stolen my boots_."

"Gott in himmel!" said the old colonel, now a college professor, as he looked at me to see if there was any resemblance between the New York reporter and the dusty, bare-footed soldier of ten years before. "Vill I never hear de last of dem dam boots? And you are de same veller, eh. I have often thought, since dat day, vot an awful gall you had. But it is all ofer now. You vatch your poots vile you are in New Chersey, for plenty of dose cavalry-men are all around here. But do me a favor now, and don"t ever again say poots to me, dot"s a good fellow," and then we all sat down to lunch, and the old colonel told the newspaper boys from New York about how I called at his tent on the march, looking for a pair of boots that had eloped with one of his New Chersey dutchmen.