"Gude's just as good as he ever was," said Colonel Mott. "It wouldn't do to let the President get at Barsinger. If you stop him in the middle of a speech, he has to go back to the beginning." Then he told a story of which he never grew weary. "'Here on this field lay ten thousand dead men,' says Barsinger. 'Ten thousand dead men, interspersed with one dead lady.' No; Billy Gude's all right."
Colonel Mott sighed with relief. The planning for a President's visit was no light task. There were arrangements to be made with the railroad companies, the secret service men were to be stationed over the battle-field, there were to be trustworthy guards, a programme was to be made out for the afternoon meeting at which the President was to speak.
The night before the thirtieth Abbie did not sleep. She heard Billy talking softly to himself.
"Right yonder, Mr. President, they came creepin' through the bushes; right yonder—" Then he groaned heavily, and Abbie shook him awake.
"I was dreamin' about the automobile," he said, confusedly. "I—oh, ain't it time to get up?"
At daylight he was astir, and Abbie helped him dress. His hand shook and his voice trembled as he said good-bye.
"You better come to the window an' see me go past," he said; then, "What you cryin' about, Abbie?"
"I'm afraid somethin' 's goin' to happen," sobbed the old woman. "I'm afraid—"
"Afraid!" he mocked. "Do you think, too, that I'm old an' wore out an' no good? You'll see!"
Half an hour later he drove to the siding where the train was to stop. A wooden platform had been built beside the track, and on it stood Colonel Mott and the rest of the committee.
"Drive back there, Billy," Colonel Mott commanded. "Then when I signal to you, you come down here. And hold on to your horses. There's going to be a Presidential salute. As soon as that's over we'll start."
Billy drew back to the side of the road. Evidently, through some mischance, the plans for the President's reception had become known, and there was a rapidly increasing crowd. On the slope of the hill a battery of artillery awaited the word to fire. Billy sat straight, his eyes on his horses' heads, his old hands gripping the lines. He watched with pride the marshal waving all carriages back from the road. Only he, Billy Gude, had the right to be there. _He_ was to drive the President. The great day had come. He chuckled aloud, not noticing that just back of the marshal stood Jakie Barsinger's fine new carriage, empty save for Jakie himself.