The firm of John St. John & Brothers sat in its office. The head of the firm was gorgeous in a new uniform; he had hurried up from New York (where he had been paying vigorous court to Ellen Manners, whom he had made up his mind to marry) in order, as oldest, biggest, and strongest, to enlist for the family in one of the home regiments. There lingered on his lips the thrill of a kiss half stolen, half yielded, while in his pockets were a number of telegrams since received, and the usually grave and stern young man was jocular and bantering. The two younger members of the firm were correspondingly savage.
“For God’s sake, clear out of here,” said Hamilton. “Your shingle’s down. Bul and I are running this office now.”
“Well, it’s the chance of your lives, boys,” said the frisky colonel. “I’ll have forgotten the law by the time I come back.”
“Hope you may choke, John,” said Hannibal, sweetly.
“Don’t allow smoking in here, do you, boys?” He got no answer. It was a hard-and-fast rule which he himself had instituted.
“Well, here goes.” He lighted a huge cigar and puffed it insolently about the office. He surveyed himself in the cracked mirror.
“Cursed if a uniform isn’t becoming to a man!” he said.
“Chicken!” said Hamilton.
“Puppy!” said Hannibal.
“Titmouse!” said Hamilton.