“No, you didn’t! You said, ‘who all are up yonder?’ I’m a sub, and s’posed you meant men—soldiers—officers. What have I to do with anybody in petticoats?”
“And I’m a grizzled vet of a dozen years’ duty, crows’ feet and gray hairs a-comin’,” grinned the adjutant, pulling at a long curly mustache and drawing himself up to his full height of six feet, “and when you’re as old as I am and half as wise, Billy, you’ll know that a pretty girl is worth ten times the thought our old frumps of generals demand. My name ain’t Gordon if I haven’t a mind to waltz over there through the mist and the wind just to tell them I’ve sent for Squeers. Then I’ll get a look at the girls.”
“I’ve got to go back,” said Billy, “and you’ve no business to—with Mrs. Gordon and an interesting family to consider. What tent’d the ladies go to? I didn’t see ’em.”
“Mrs. Gordon, suh,” said the adjutant, with placid superiority, “considers it a reflection on her sex when I fail to pay it due homage. Of course you didn’t see the ladies. The party was shown into the general’s own domicile. Couldn’t you see how many young fellows were posing in picturesque attitudes in front of it? Awe Hank!” he suddenly shouted to an officer striding past the tent in dripping mackintosh. “Goin’ up to division headquarters? Just tell the staff or the chief I’ve sent an orderly galloping after Squeers. He’s halfway to the Presidio now, but it’ll be an hour before they can get back.” The silent officer nodded and went on, whereat Gordon made a spring for the entrance and hailed again.
“Say, Hank! Who are the damsels?”
The answer came back through the fog:
“People from the East—looking for a runaway. Old gent, pretty daughter, and pretty daughter’s prettier cousin. Heard the orders?”
“Damn the orders! They don’t touch us. Where do they come from?”
“D’rect from Washington, they say. Three regiments to sail at once, and——”
“Oh, I know all that!” shouted Gordon impatiently. “It was all over camp an hour ago! Where do they—the girls—come from? What’s their name?”