As he spoke he drew from his pocket a tiny round mirror, not more than three inches in diameter, and carefully examined the collar of his coat.
"Have you found a speck, Arthur?" asked Langdon. "If I hadn't seen you risk your life fifteen or twenty thousand times I'd say you're a dandy."
"I am a dandy," said St. Clair. "At least, I mean to be one, if I come out of the war alive."
"What do you intend to wear?" asked Harry.
"Depends upon what I can afford. If I have the money, it's going to be the best, the very best any market can afford."
"A dozen suits, I suppose."
"At least as many, with hats, shoes, overcoats, cloaks, shirts and all the et ceteras to match. Why shouldn't I wear fine clothes if I want 'em? Do you demand that instead I spend it on fiery whisky to pour down me, as so many public men and leading citizens do? The clothes at least don't burn me out and finally burn me to death."
Langdon put up his hands in defense.
"I haven't jumped on you, Arthur," he said. "I admire you, though I can't equal you. And as I'm not willing to be second even to you, I'm going to our sea island, near the Carolina coast, when this war is over, lie down under the shade of a live oak, have our big colored man, Sam, to bring me luxurious food about once every three hours, and between these three-hour periods I'll be fanned by Julius, another big colored man of ours, and I won't make any exertion except to tell day by day to admiring visitors how I whipped the Yankees every time I could get near enough to see 'em, and how a lot more were scared to death just because they heard me crashing through the brush."
"You'll do the bragging part, all right, Happy," said St. Clair. "I believe you could keep up the sort of existence you describe for a year at least."