“Tut-tut, ma'am,” protested the Major, warmly. “Can't you leave such things as war to my judgment? Haven't I been in two? Months! Nonsense! Why, in two weeks we'll sweep every Yankee in the country as far north as Greenland. Two weeks will be ample time, ma'am.”
“Well, I give them six months,” generously remarked Champe, in defiance of the Major's gathering frown.
“And what do you know about it, sir?” demanded the old gentleman. “Were you in the War of 1812? Were you even in the Mexican War, sir?”
“Well, hardly,” replied Champe, smiling, “but all the same I give them six months to get whipped.”
“I'm sure I hope it will be over before winter,” observed Mrs. Lightfoot, glancing round. “Things will be a little upset, I fear.”
The Major twitched with anger. “There you go again—both of you!” he exclaimed. “I might suppose after all these years you would place some reliance on my judgment; but, no, you will keep up your croaking until our troops are dictating terms at Washington. Six months! Tush!”
“Professor Bates thinks it will take a year,” returned Champe, his interest overleaping his discretion.
“And when did he fight, sir?” inquired the Major.
“Well, any way, it's safer to prepare for six months,” was Champe's rejoinder. “I shouldn't like to run short of things, you know.”
“You'll do nothing of the kind, sir,” thundered the Major. “It's going to be a two weeks' war, and you shall take an outfit for two weeks, or stay at home! By God, sir, if you contradict me again I'll not let you go to fight the Yankees.”