“Pardon me,” said Collins politely, “but is that your personal baggage, gentlemen?”
“That belongs to Colonel Gillingwater,” remarked the quartermaster. “The rest of us have a suit-case apiece.”
“Do you mean,” demanded Ardmore, “that the adjutant-general carries all that luggage for himself?”
“That is exactly it! But,” continued the quartermaster loyally, “you can never tell what will happen when you take the field this way, and our chief is not a man to forget any of the details of military life.”
“In Washington we all think very highly of Colonel Gillingwater,” remarked Collins, with noble condescension, “and in case we should become involved in war he would undoubtedly be called to high rank in the regular establishment.”
“It’s too bad,” said Cooke, as the three drew aside and waited for a battery of light artillery to rumble into place behind the infantry, “it’s too bad, Collins, that it didn’t occur to you to impersonate the president of the French Republic or Emperor William. You’ll be my death before we finish this job.”
“This won’t be so funny when Dangerfield gets hold of us,” grinned the reporter. “We’d better cheer up all we can now. We’re playing with the state of North Carolina as though it were a bean-bag. But what’s that over there?”
The pyramidal baggage wagon had gained the road behind them, and lingered uncertainly, with the driver asleep and waiting for orders. The conspirators were about to gallop forward to the head of the moving column, when Collins pointed across the abandoned camp-ground to where a horseman, who had evidently made a wide detour of the advancing column, rode madly toward the baggage wagon.
“The gentleman’s trying to kill his horse, I should judge,” murmured Ardmore. “By Jove!”
“It’s Gillingwater!” chorused the trio.