“Oh, shut up!” cried Dan, sharply; “if you choose to turn pigs simply because you've come out to do a little fighting, I've nothing to say against it; but I prefer to remain a gentleman, that's all.”
“He prefers to remain a gentleman, that's all,” chanted the chorus round the apple tree.
“And I'll knock your confounded heads off, if you keep this up,” pursued Dan furiously.
“And he'll knock our confounded heads off, if we keep this up,” shouted the chorus in a jubilant refrain.
“Well, I'll tell you one thing,” remarked Jack Powell, feeling his responsibility in the matter of the pomade. “All I've got to say is, if this is what you call war, it's a pretty stale business. The next time I want to be frisky, I'll volunteer to pass the lemonade at a Sunday-school picnic.”
“And has anybody called it war, Dandy?” inquired Bland, witheringly.
“Well, somebody might, you know,” replied Jack, opening his fine white shirt at the neck, “did I hear you call it war, Kemper?” he asked politely, as he punched a stout sleeper beside him.
Kemper started up and aimed a blow at vacancy. “Oh, you heard the devil!” he retorted.
“I beg your pardon; it was mistaken identity,” returned Jack suavely.
“Look here, my lad, don't fool with Kemper when he's hot,” cautioned Bland, “He's red enough to fire those bales of straw. I say, Kemper, may I light my pipe at your face?”