Part 11 (1/2)

Swayne, a slender, fair man, not over twenty-three, smiled and extended a hearty hand, which Harry received with equal heartiness. The smile turned into a slight twinkle.

”I've been glad to meet your friends here, Mr. Kenton,” he said, ”but the meeting has brought a disappointment with it.”

”How's that?”

”Until we began talking I thought I had won the Seven Days and the Second Mana.s.sas all by myself. Now, it seems that I have to share the honors with you fellows.”

”So you do,” said Langdon, and then he sang:

”There comes a voice from Florida, From Tampa's lonely sh.o.r.e, It speaks of one we've lost, O'Brien is no more.

In the land of sun and flowers, His head lies pillowed low, No more he'll drink the gin c.o.c.ktail, At Benjamin Haven's, Oh!

At Benny Haven's, Oh!

At Benny Haven's, Oh!”

”Do I get it right, Swayne? Remember that I heard you sing it only three times.”

”Fine! Fine!” said Swayne with enthusiasm. ”You have it right, or as near right as need be, and you're using it in a much better voice than I can.”

”I'm a great soldier, but my true place is on the operatic stage,” said Langdon modestly.

”It's an old West Point song of ours, Kenton,” said Swayne. ”While I was lying here listening to the continued roar of all those great guns, I couldn't keep from humming it as a sort of undernote.”

”This gully has a queer effect,” said St. Clair, who, lying on a blanket, was dusting every minute particle of dried mud from his uniform. ”It seems to soften the sounds of all those guns-and they must be a couple of hundred at least. It produces a kind of harmony.”

”It's the old G.o.d Vulcan and a thousand a.s.sistants of his hammering away on their anvils,” said Harry, ”and they hammer out a regular tune.”

”Besides hammering out a tune,” said St. Clair, ”they're also hammering out swords and bayonets to be used against us.”

As he spoke he drew from his pocket a tiny round mirror, not more than three inches in diameter, and carefully examined the collar of his coat.

”Have you found a speck, Arthur?” asked Langdon. ”If I hadn't seen you risk your life fifteen or twenty thousand times I'd say you're a dandy.”

”I am a dandy,” said St. Clair. ”At least, I mean to be one, if I come out of the war alive.”

”What do you intend to wear?” asked Harry.

”Depends upon what I can afford. If I have the money, it's going to be the best, the very best any market can afford.”

”A dozen suits, I suppose.”

”At least as many, with hats, shoes, overcoats, cloaks, s.h.i.+rts and all the et ceteras to match. Why shouldn't I wear fine clothes if I want 'em? Do you demand that instead I spend it on fiery whisky to pour down me, as so many public men and leading citizens do? The clothes at least don't burn me out and finally burn me to death.”

Langdon put up his hands in defense.

”I haven't jumped on you, Arthur,” he said. ”I admire you, though I can't equal you. And as I'm not willing to be second even to you, I'm going to our sea island, near the Carolina coast, when this war is over, lie down under the shade of a live oak, have our big colored man, Sam, to bring me luxurious food about once every three hours, and between these three-hour periods I'll be fanned by Julius, another big colored man of ours, and I won't make any exertion except to tell day by day to admiring visitors how I whipped the Yankees every time I could get near enough to see 'em, and how a lot more were scared to death just because they heard me cras.h.i.+ng through the brush.”

”You'll do the bragging part, all right, Happy,” said St. Clair. ”I believe you could keep up the sort of existence you describe for a year at least.”