"It was the worst run-away ever seen in camp, and, before I knew it, we'd passed Porter, passed the finish, passed the last tent in the long brigade line, and passed the ditch at the end of the field; at least, 'Acme' passed the ditch—me they picked out of it."
"It certainly was a remarkable burst of speed," assented the colonel, laughing until the tears stood in his eyes. "When we found that Bones wasn't killed outright, we went for the cavalry fellows in every way, shape, and manner that our combined talents could suggest, and if we failed to make life a burden to them it wasn't for lack of trying. Come over here," he continued, rising from his chair, and leading the way to the opposite side of the room, where, in a double frame, there hung upon the wall two large photographs. "These two pictures—which, by the way, we consider priceless—tell the whole story. See that one? Well, that's the enlargement of a snap-shot plate caught by one of our color-sergeants when Bones was in full career. Observe the expression of the face; and, above all, notice that grip on the pommel. Isn't it all grand? Where should Sheridan's ride and Paul Revere's little trip be classed beside that?"
"The other picture in the frame," said the doctor, with a pardonable air of pride, "is a photo of the cup itself, and we all think a heap of it. The fellows in the troop, you see, had been going the rounds of the camp, and guying the life out of the Third—and me—for presuming to enter against their crack horse, so the final result was just plain joy for all hands at our headquarters.
"I was excused from parade that afternoon," he continued, knocking the dead ashes from his pipe, "because I was a trifle tired, and more than a trifle sore—in spots. Besides, it took one able-bodied darkey the best part of that afternoon to clean the mud off my uniform, knock my helmet out into shape, and straighten out the kinks in my scabbard.
"As for 'Acme': well, he never turned a hair, and after a careless sort of trot around the camp he came back to our stables, looking just as unconcerned and sleepy as ever. But he lived high for the rest of that tour of duty, and nobody seemed to care about referring to him as a 'skate.'"
"'Sporting blood will tell,'" was Hatch's comment as the doctor led the way to the chair where the overcoats lay piled. "I should think, though, that the troopers would have challenged you to another go."
"They have challenged us—and more than once," said the colonel, as Sam held his coat for him, "but our invariable reply is that our surgeon is too precious a bit of bric-à-brac to risk in any more enterprises of that sort, and—as none of the rest of us care to diminish Bones' glory—we have averaged up matters by keeping the cup and conceding them the championship," and he moved towards the door, stopping, however, with, "I wonder which owl this is?" as he caught the sound of footsteps on the stairs outside.
"Good evening, Colonel," sung out the new arrival, the adjutant, as he threw wide the door and stepped blinking into the room. "Hello, the rest of you! Can't make you all out, it's so bright here—after the stairs. What, all going?"
"Yes, it's a good hour beyond taps," replied the colonel.
"All right, sir; I'll go with you, if you'll wait for me to empty just one," said the adjutant, drawing off his right glove. "It would be too much to ask me to turn 'round and go down again without stopping for a second wind. One up, Sam—right around; making six."