“Bateau, sah. Leonidas Bateau. My cousin, Xerxes Anniston, sits over yonder by the watahcoolah.”
“Oh,” said Jones.
“Yes, sah. Xerx he sings bass in our choir back in our home. Sistah Smith—”
“Who?” said the sergeant.
“Sistah Smith, sah, the wife of our ministah, Tullius C. Smith.”
“Oh,” said the sergeant.
“She is leadah of our choir back in our home. She is our best soprano, Sistah Mingory is our best alto, and Brother Macon Lafayette Young gets two notes lowah than any of our basses. He keeps the choicest grocery in town and is president of our Y. M. C. A. You’d ought to heard our quartet in the prayer from ‘Moses in Egypt,’ arranged by Sistah Mingory last Eastah Sunday.”
The thoroughly good heart of Jones now warmed to this recruit. (I cannot hope that you will remember Jones. He was Specimen Jones long ago, before he joined the Army. Some of his doings are chronicled elsewhere. He is an old member of the family.) “Made Moses hum, did y’u?” said he. “I’ll bet the girls would sooner have a solo from you than from Brother what’s-his-name Lafayette.”
“Sistah Smith,” replied Leonidas, blushing like the innocent watermelon that he was, “did say that she couldn’t see how they were going to get along without my uppah registah.”
Jones settled back in his seat. “Sing away,” said he.