It so happened that Ben Lethbridge, probably satisfied that it was not the fist of a baby which had partially blackened both of his eyes, and produced a heavy pain under his left ear, did not demand the satisfaction which was needed to heal his wounded honor. The matter was duly discussed in the tent of Tom’s mess; but our soldier boy, while he professed to be entirely satisfied, was willing to meet Ben at such time and place as he desired, and finish up the affair.  
The other party was magnanimous, and declared that he too was satisfied; and old Hapgood thought they had better proceed no further with the affair, for both of them might be arrested for disorderly conduct.
 
“I am satisfied, Ben; but if you ever call me a baby or a calf again, it will all have to be settled over again,” said Tom, as he laid aside his musket, which he had been cleaning during the conversation.
 
“I don’t want to quarrel with you, Tom,” replied Ben, “but I wish you would be a little more like the rest of the fellows.”
 
“What do you mean by that? I am like the rest of the fellows.”
 
“You wouldn’t play cards.”
 
“Yes, I will play cards, but I won’t gamble; and there isn’t many fellows in the company that will.”
 
“That’s so,” added Hapgood. “I know all about that business. When I went to Mexico, I lost my money as fast as I got it, playing cards. Don’t gamble, boys.”
 
“I won’t, for one,” said Tom, with emphasis.
 
“Are you going to set up for a soldier-saint, too?” sneered Ben, turning to the old man.
 
“I’m no saint, but I’ve larned better than to gamble.”
 
“I think you’d better stop drinking too,” added Ben.
 
“Come, Ben, you are meaner than dirt,” said Tom, indignantly.
 
Old Hapgood was a confirmed toper. The people in Pinchbrook said he was a good man, but, they used to add, with a shrug of the shoulders, “pity he drinks.” It was a sad pity, but he seemed to have no power over his appetite. The allusion of Ben to his besetting sin was cruel and mortifying, for the old man had certainly tried to reform, and since the regiment left Boston, he had not tasted the intoxicating cup. He had declared before the mess that he had stopped drinking; so his resolution was known to all his companions, though none of them had much confidence in his ability to carry it out.
 
“I didn’t speak to you, Tom Somers,” said Ben, sharply.
 
“You said a mean thing in my presence.”
 
“By and by we shall be having a prayer meeting in our tent every night.”
 
“If you are invited I hope you will come,” added Tom, “for if prayers will do any body any good, they won’t hurt you.”
 
“If you will take care of yourself, and let me alone, it’s all I ask of you.”
 
“I’m agreed.”
 
This was about the last of the skirmishing between Tom and Ben. The latter was a little disposed to be bully; and from the time the company left Pinchbrook, he had been in the habit of calling Tom a baby, and other opprobrious terms, till the subject of his sneers could endure them no longer. Tom had come to the conclusion that he could obtain respectful treatment only by the course he had adopted. Perhaps, if he had possessed the requisite patience, he might have attained the same result by a less repulsive and more noble policy.
 
The regiment remained in Washington about a fortnight. The capital was no longer considered to be in danger. A large body of troops had been massed in and around the city, and the rebels’ boast that they would soon capture Washington was no longer heeded. Fear and anxiety had given place to hope and expectation. “On to Richmond!” was the cry sounded by the newspapers, and repeated by the people. The army of newly-fledged soldiers was burning with eagerness to be led against the rebels. “On to Richmond!” shouted citizens and soldiers, statesmen and politicians. Some cursed and some deprecated the cautious slowness of the old general who had never been defeated.
 
“On to Richmond!” cried the boys in Tom’s regiment, and none more earnestly than he.
 
“Don’t hurry old Scott. He knows what he is about. I know something about this business, for I’ve seen old Scott where the bullets flew thicker’n snow flakes at Christmas,” was the oft-repeated reply of Hapgood, the veteran of Company K.
 
The movement which had been so long desired and expected was made at last, and the regiment struck its tents, and proceeded over Long Bridge into Virginia. The first camp was at Shuter’s Hill, near Alexandria.
 
“Now we are in for it,” said Tom Somers, when the mess gathered in their tent after the camp was formed. “I hope we shall not remain here long.”
 
“Don’t be in a hurry, my brave boy,” said old Hapgood. “We may stop here a month.”
 
“I hope not.”
 
“Don’t hope anything about it, Tom. Take things as they come.”
 
But the impatience of the soldier boy was soon relieved; for at daylight on the morning of the 16th of July, the regiment was routed............