"Until we began talking I thought I had won the Seven Days and the Second Manassas all by myself. Now, it seems that I have to share the honors with you fellows."
"So you do," said Langdon, and then he sang:
"There comes a voice from Florida,
From Tampa's lonely shore,
It speaks of one we've lost,
O'Brien is no more.
In the land of sun and flowers,
His head lies pillowed low,
No more he'll drink the gin cocktail,
At Benjamin Haven's, Oh!
At Benny Haven's, Oh!
At Benny Haven's, Oh!"
"Do I get it right, Swayne? Remember that I heard you sing it only three times."
"Fine! Fine!" said Swayne with enthusiasm. "You have it right, or as near right as need be, and you're using it in a much better voice than I can."
"I'm a great soldier, but my true place is on the operatic stage," said Langdon modestly.
"It's an old West Point song of ours, Kenton," said Swayne. "While I was lying here listening to the continued roar of all those great guns, I couldn't keep from humming it as a sort of undernote."
"This gully has a queer effect," said St. Clair, who, lying on a blanket, was dusting every minute particle of dried mud from his uniform. "It seems to soften the sounds of all those guns—and they must be a couple of hundred at least. It produces a kind of harmony."
"It's the old god Vulcan and a thousand assistants of his hammering away on their anvils," said Harry, "and they hammer out a regular tune."
"Besides hammering out a tune," said St. Clair, "they're also hammering out swords and bayonets to be used against us."