Bring in my breakfast. What’s the time o’ day?
What? six o’clock!—and day’s already broke?
I’m too late to escape him. Holy smoke!
I think I hear his footstep on the stair—
But no, it is not his: there is no blare
Of a great trumpet strenuously blown—
That veritable tuba mirum known
To have sounded once the charge at Kettle Hill
(After ’twas made) and to be sounding still.
ORDERLY: