I had fallen out of the column, and was riding with Tom Herbert. Have you forgotten that worthy, my dear reader? Has the roar of Gettysburg driven him quite from your memory? I hope not. I have not mentioned him for a long time, so many things have diverted me—but we had ridden together, slept together, fought together, and starved together! Tom had come to be one of my best friends, in fact, and his charming good humor beguiled many a weary march. To hear him laugh was real enjoyment; and when he would suddenly burst forth with,
“Oh look at the riggings
On Billy Barlo—o—o—ow!”
the sternest faces relaxed, the sourest personages could not but laugh.
Brave and honest fop! Where are you to-day, mon garçon! I wish I could see you and hear you sing again!
But I am prosing. Riding beside Tom, I was looking down and thinking of a certain young lady, when an exclamation from my companion made me raise my head.
“By George! there’s the house, old fellow!”
“The house?”
“Of the famous supper.”
“So it is!”
“And my inamorata, Surry! I wonder if she is still there?”