"Why the hell ain't you runnin' for Congress instead of that long-winded son of a bitch?" somebody shouted.

"Tony's the chairman of the Freedom Party," the lean man answered easily. "You promote the commander of the unit, not a new recruit." He took out his billfold and displayed something Bartlett could not make out. "Here's my membership card- number seven, from back in September."

"Where do we sign up?" Two men asked the question at the same time. One of them added, "You ain't gonna stay a new recruit long, pal, not the way you talk. Who the hell are you, anyway?"

"My name's Featherston-Jake Featherston," the lean man answered. "Sergeant, Confederate States Artillery, retired." He scowled. "The fools in the War Department retired damn near the whole Army." With what looked like a deliberate effort of will, he made himself smile. "Party office is a couple blocks down Seventh, toward the Tredegar works. Come on by. Hope you do, anyways."

"Damned if I'm not tempted to," Bill Foster said as the little rally began to break up. "Damned if I'm not. That fellow Featherston, he's got a good way of looking at things."

"He's got a good line, that's for certain," Reggie Bartlett said. "If he were selling can openers door to door, there wouldn't be a closed can in Richmond this time tomorrow. But just because something sounds good doesn't make it so. Come on, Bill. Do you think a stage magician really pulls a Stonewall out of your nose?"

"Wish somebody'd pull one out of somewhere," Foster answered.

Reggie's laugh was rueful, five-dollar goldpieces being in notably short supply in his pockets, too. He said, "The world's not as simple as he makes it out to be."

"Well, what if it isn't?" his friend returned. "I wish it was that simple. Don't reckon I'm the only one who does, either."