I say, Kemper, may I light
my pipe at your face?"
"Shut up, now, or he'll be puffing round here like a steam engine," said a
small dark man named Baker, "let smouldering fires lie on a day like this.
Give me a light, Dandy."
Jack Powell held out his cigar, and then, leaning back against the tree,
blew a cloud of smoke about his head.
"I'll be blessed if I don't think seven hours' drill is too much of a bad
thing," he plaintively remarked; "and I may as well add, by the bye, that
the next time I go to war, I intend to go in the character of a
Major-general."
"Make it Commander-in-chief. Don't be too modest, my boy."
"Well, you may laugh if you like," pursued Jack, "but between you and me,
it was all the fault of those girls at home--they have an idea that
patriotism never trims its sleeves, you know. On my word, I might have been
Captain of the Leicesterburg Guards after Champe Lightfoot joined the
cavalry; but such averted looks were turned from me by the ladies, that I
had to jump into the ranks merely to reinstate myself in their regard. They
made even Governor Ambler volunteer as a private, I believe, but he was
lucky and got made a Colonel instead."
Bland laughed softly.
"That reminds me of our Colonel," he observed. "I overheard him talking to
himself the other day, and he said: 'All I ask is not to be in command of a
volunteer regiment in hell.'"
"Oh, he won't," put in Dan; "all the volunteers will be in heaven--" unless
they're sent down below because they were too big fools to join the
cavalry.
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