“Sure—that’s it—the microbe Pacificus americanus!”
The preacher fidgeted in a sorry effort to smile with his tormentors.
“I suppose, of course, gentlemen,” Pike fluttered, “as I’m a tenderfoot you will have your little jokes—it’s all in the day’s work—so to speak—as it were!”
The Commander turned to a sergeant.
“Put an apron on this little man and make him a dishwasher—tin dishes—he might ruin my silver—”
The officers roared.
“If he’s any good I’ll make a butler out of him. I like his whiskers. They’re distinctly English—”
With a loud guffaw the staff dispersed and the General turned to his tent.
Pike danced a little jig in his effort to recall the judge and correct the error of his sentence.
The sergeant gave him a resounding smack on the side of his head that spun him round like a top.