They were not blinded by the dust and shouting of the arena.
Dick with his two young comrades sat beneath an oak and ate the warm food and drank the hot coffee the camp cook brought to them.

They had escaped without hurt, and they were very happy over the achievement of the day.
The night was crisp, filled with starshine, and the cooking fires had been built along a long line, stretching away like a series of triumphant bonfires.
"I felt this morning that we would win," said Dick.
"I've felt several times that we would win, when we didn't," said Pennington.
"But this time I felt it right.

They say that Stonewall Jackson always communicated electricity to his men, and I think our Little Phil has the same quality.

Since we first came to him here I haven't doubted that we would win, and when I saw him and Grant talking I knew that we'd be up and doing." "It's the spirit that Grant showed at Vicksburg," said Warner, seriously.
"Little Phil--I intend to call him that when I'm not in his presence, because it's really a term of admiration--is another Grant, only younger and on horseback." "It's fire that does it," said Dick.

"No, Frank, I don't mean this material fire burning before us, but the fire that makes him see obstacles little, and advantages big, the fire that makes him rush over everything to get at the enemy and destroy him." "Well spoken, Dick," said Warner.