nutmeg-colored face and hot black eyes brought Peter a vague sense of familiarity; but he never would have identified his impression had he not observed on the breast of the soldier's uniform the Congressional military medal for bravery on the field of battle. Its glint furnished Peter the necessary clew. He remembered his mother's writing him something about Tump Pack going to France and getting “crowned” before the army. He had puzzled a long time over what she meant by “crowned” before he guessed her meaning. Now the medal aided Peter in reconstructing out of this big umber-colored giant the rather spindling Tump Pack he had known in Hooker's Bend.
Siner was greatly surprised, and his heart warmed at the sight of his old playmate.
“What have you been doing to yourself, Tump?” he cried, laughing, and shaking the big hand in sudden warmth. “You used to be the size of a dime in a jewelry store.”
“Been in 'e army, nigger, wha I's been fed,” said the grinning brown man, delightedly. “I sho is picked up, ain't I?”
“And what are you doing here in Cairo?”
“Tryin' to bridle a lil white mule.” Mr. Pack winked a whisky-brightened eye jovially and touched his coat to indicate that some of the “white mule” was in his pocket and had not been drunk.
“How'd you get here?”
“Wucked my way down on de St. Louis packet an'
