He wished the fates had made him a racing man. Then he looked at
Pop Geers, the silent one, who sat for hours dumb and uncommunicative on a
feed box, tapping lightly on the ground with his racing whip and chewing
straw. Jim's imagination was aroused. He had once seen that other silent
American, General Grant, and had been filled with admiration for him.
That was on a great day in Jim's life, the day on which he had seen Grant
going to receive Lee's surrender at Appomattox. There had been a battle
with the Union men pursuing the fleeing Rebs out of Richmond, and Jim,
having secured a bottle of whisky, and having a chronic dislike of battles,
had managed to creep away into a wood. In the distance he heard shouts and
presently saw several men riding furiously down a road. It was Grant with
his aides going to the place where Lee waited. They rode to the place near
where Jim sat with his back against a tree and the bottle between his legs;
then stopped. Then Grant decided not to take part in the ceremony. His
clothes were covered with mud and his beard was ragged. He knew Lee and
knew he would be dressed for the occasion. He was that kind of a man;
he was one fitted for historic pictures and occasions. Grant wasn't. He
told his aides to go on to the spot where Lee waited, told them what
arrangements were to be made, then jumped his horse over a ditch and rode
along a path under the trees toward the spot where Jim lay.
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