"What's new, Charley?" asked the doctor, as Sam made off towards the base of supplies.
"Can't seem to think of anything," replied the adjutant, seating himself easily upon the nearest table, upon which he began vigorously to drum with his knuckles. "Hold on, though! Now I come to think of it, I saw 'Acme' to-day. Yes, sir! And he was drawing a hearse, too. Yes, sir! I followed the funeral a block, to make sure. Well, here's to him!" and the late master of "Acme" emptied his pewter with one long, breathless pull, while the doctor slowly drained his mug, saying with unsmiling solemnity, "To 'Acme.'"
FROM BEYOND THE PYRAMIDS
[FROM BEYOND THE PYRAMIDS.]
It was the evening after the battle at Farlow's Farm, and most of us—what's that? You never heard of any such engagement? Now, isn't that odd! Why, it was fought only last year, and for one whole day the papers were full of it. Well, though I had no idea of putting a preface to the story I started to tell, I suppose I must stop long enough to explain why there was a fight, and how it happened that so many of us—all of us, in fact—got back alive from it.
Once a year, you must know, there comes down from the State House, and through "proper channels," a mandate directing each volunteer regiment in the Commonwealth to arm and equip itself, ration and supply itself, and bundle itself out into the country for what officially is known as the Fall Drill. We are rather apt to refer to an affair of this sort as "going out with the regiment for the Autumn Manœuvres," because, you see, this sounds more dignified, and lacks the baldness of the official phraseology.