“Attention!” he shouted. “Carry arms—present arms—shoulder arms—parade arms!”
The song-writer flung his wooden rifle down.
“I quit!” he declared. “I’m through, right now.”
“What’s the matter?” demanded the astonished sergeant.
“The trouble with you is you change your mind too darned often!”
§ 332 Reserve Ammunition
Either the mule which drew the decrepit wagon along the sandy road through the pine-barrens, was balky or else perhaps he merely was conservative by nature. Despite prayers, pleas, curses and commands from the lanky Georgian who drove him, each being accompanied by a terrific blow with a long heavy club, the obstinate animal merely blinked its eyes and continued to amble at the slowest of all possible gaits. The city man, who came along just now in his automobile, drew up to watch the spectacle. Ordinarily the passer-by was a humane man and believed in treating the dumb brutes with all possible kindliness. But the sight of this long-eared malingerer made him forget his sentiments.
“My friend,” he said, “I marvel at your patience. Is that beast, by any chance, sick?”
The Cracker shook his head:
“Naw, suh,” he answered, “there ain’t nothin’ ailin’ him. This is jest the way he acts all the time. Even down here on this flat land I have to keep beatin’ him all the time this a-way to make him move a-tall.”