General Trumble and Mr.
Chenoweth had invited their young friends to attend, after the ball, a collation which they chose to call a supper, but which, to accord with the hour, might more aptly have been designated a breakfast.

To afford a private retreat for the scene of this celebration, they had borrowed the offices of Gray and Vanrevel, and Crailey hospitably announced that any guest was welcome to stay for a year or two, since, probably, neither of the firm would have need of an office for at least that length of time.
Nine men gathered about the table which replaced Tom's work-a-day old desk: the two Chenoweths, Eugene Madrillon, Marsh, Jefferson Bareaud, the stout General, Tom Vanrevel, Crailey, and Will Cummings, the editor coming in a little late, but rubbing his hands cheerfully over what he declared was to be the last column from his pen to rear its length on the Journal's front page for many a long day--a description of the presentation of the flag, a bit of prose which he considered almost equal to his report of the warehouse fire.
This convivial party made merry and tried to forget that most of them had "been mighty teary," as Marsh said, an hour earlier; while Mr.
Chenoweth sat with his hand on his son's shoulder, unconsciously most of the time, apologetically removing, it when he observed it.

Many were the witticisms concerning the difference in rank hence forth to be observed between the young men, as Tom was now a major, Marsh a captain, Will Cummings a second lieutenant, and the rest mere privates, except Crailey, who was a corporal.

Nevertheless, though the board was festive, it was somewhat subdued and absent until they came to the toasts.
It was Tappingham who proposed Miss Betty Carewe.

"I know Tom Vanrevel will understand--nay, I know he's man enough to join us," said Marsh as he rose.