Dick called himself a "cherry-blossom
correspondent," and when our ship left those shores each knew
that the other went to his state-room and in bitter chagrin
and disappointment wept quite childishly.
Of course, he was courageous--absurdly so--and, in spite of
his high-strung temperament, always calm and cool. At El Paso
hill, the day after the fight, the rest of us scurried for
tree-trunks when a few bullets whistled near; but Dick stalked
out in the open and with his field-glasses searched for the
supposed sharpshooters in the trees. Lying under a bomb-proof
when the Fourth of July bombardment started, I saw Dick going
unhurriedly down the hill for his glasses, which he had left
in Colonel Roosevelt's tent, and unhurriedly going back up to
the trenches again. Under the circumstances I should have
been content with my naked eye. A bullet thudded close to
where Dick lay with a soldier.
"That hit you?" asked Dick. The soldier grunted "No," looked
sidewise at Dick, and muttered an oath of surprise. Dick had
not taken his glasses from his eyes. I saw him writhing on
the ground with sciatica during that campaign, like a snake,
but pulling his twisted figure straight and his tortured face
into a smile if a soldier or stranger passed.
He was easily the first reporter of his time--perhaps of all
time.
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