NOW let me proceed. The gentleman in the Market-street car spared me. The questions he asked were few and to the point. He was an exception. When I replied in the affirmative to his first question, he said

“Where do you live?”

“In Western Pennsylvania,” I replied.

“Where are you staying now?”

“In Haddington Hospital.”

“I suppose you will soon be discharged?”

“Yes, I shall soon take my discharge.”

“Have you any employment in view?”

“No, sir; none.”

“If you would like to remain in Philadelphia awhile, when discharged from the service, I will get you a situation.”

This rather took me by surprise, but I had the presence of mind to say,——

“Thank you: I think I would like it.”

“Then,” said he, “call at my office near Fifth and Chestnut and I will do as I promise. My name is M*******: I am United States Marshal.”

“I am truly obliged,” I said.

“Not at all,” he returned. “When I do any thing for a soldier I am only paying an honest debt.”

I returned to Haddington in triumph, and exhibited my pass to the assistant-surgeon who had put me in the guard-house.

“Didn’t you know,” said I, with dignity, “that Doctor Levis and I were particular friends?”

“No,” said he, turning slightly pale. “Are—are you acquainted?”

“Acquainted!” said I. “I should think so! We’ve known each other for—for—I don’t know how long.”

I didn’t know exactly how long, but knew it was something short of twenty-four hours.

“Ah? You should have told me. I am sorry. Well, go in and out of the hospital whenever you please.”

“I will,” said I.

From that time forth I had perfect liberty, during my stay at the hospital.

In June I got my artificial leg, which I have never worn much—finding a crutch and cane far superior as a means of locomotion—and having received my discharge, I called one fine morning at the United States Marshal’s office. It was early, and he had not come in yet. To pass the time, I walked to the corner of Fifth and Chestnut streets, and stood for a moment gazing at the good old clock in the State-house steeple. Streams of people were passing up and down the street; and I had not stood long before a man came up and held out his hand as though, I thought, to shake hands. Supposing him to be some old acquaintance, whose visage had faded from my memory in the course of the sanguinary scenes through which I had lately passed, I was about to seize his hand, and request him to remind me where and when we had last met, when I observed that there was a ten-cent note in the extended hand, and he seemed to be offering that to me, and not the hand. I stared in astonishment.

“Take it,” said he: “you’re welcome to it.”

I was dumb with amazement. Was the man an escaped lunatic? Might he be dangerous, like Thomas of the hospital? I felt like “getting.”

“Take it,” he repeated, still presenting the trifling bit of fractional currency: “I owe it to you.”

I was still lost in wonder. Could it be possible that it was some country gentleman to whom I had lent the sum of ten cents before the war, and that he was so honest and upright as to return it on the first opportunity? No, he must be mistaken. I had never seen him before, certainly.

“My dear sir,” I said, “you are mistaken. I never lent you——”

“O, not that,” he interrupted. “You’ve served your country; you’ve fought my battles for me, while I stayed at home; you’ve got crippled, and now——”

“Really, sir,” I interrupted, smothering my indignation, “I am not in need of pecuniary assistance. On the contrary, my income is ten thousand dollars a year.” (That was a big one.) “If you wish to do good to the amount of ten cents, pray give it to some one who needs it. I thank you.” I spoke the latter words with dignity, and turned away disgusted.

Since that day, I have ever feared to stop a moment at a street corner, no matter how tired I might be, lest some other unpardonable fool should chance to be near, and bring a burning flush of crimson to my face. The idea of being suspected of soliciting pecuniary assistance, simply because I stood resting at a corner with a crutch in my hand! It is so revolting to me that I can not look back on that little—extremely little—incident without a shudder. Another reward for serving my country. O, John Smith! John Smith!

I saw Mr. M*******, who, remembering me at once, gave me a letter to Colonel C******, a blunt, but good-hearted old soldier, who at once procured me a situation in the United States Arsenal. I remained in my situation eight months, during which I saw a great many queer things, and got a pretty fair idea of the purity, (?) probity (?) and integrity (?) that prevail among the men who have charge of such public institutions.