“Haven't you heard the news?” He spoke much more easily now. “It came at midnight to the Journal.”
“No; I've been walking in the country.”
“The Mexicans crossed the Rio Grande on the twenty-sixth of last month, captured Captain Thornton and murdered Colonel Crook. That means war is certain.”
“It has been certain for a long time,” said Tom. “Polk has forced it from the first.”
“Then it's a devil of a pity he can't be the only man to die!”
“Have they called for volunteers?” asked Tom, going toward the door.
“No; but if the news is true, they will.”
“Yes,” said Tom; and as he reached the hallway he paused. “Can I help you to undress?”
“Certainly not!” Crailey sat up, indignantly. “Can't you see that I'm perfectly sober? It was the merest temporary fit, and I've shaken it off. Don't you see?” He got upon his feet, staggered, but shook himself like a dog coming out of the water, and came to the door with infirm steps.
“You're going to bed, aren't you?” asked Tom. “You'd much better.”