They turned on the Sixteenth of September Street, and had to stop to let troops pass, some short, some tall, but none with uniforms that fit, except the officers, who were perfectly groomed, with beautiful uniforms that would have done credit to a rear Admiral of anybody's country, and as they marched past, sullen dirty faces showed no sign of expression, of joy, of madness, chagrin, nor contempt—they were like so many dirty brown masks, that hide so much thievery, murder, and cowardice underneath.
"Do the rebels look anything like this?" asked Pearl, as they passed.
"Just the same—clothes may be different, but that means nothing. These men that just marched past may be on the rebel side before sundown—they are just as willing to fight for one side as the other, as long as it promises to be profitable."
"I can't understand why they are always having these revolutions down here."
"Pearl, in our country every boy is taught that he can, by hard study and work, be the President if he wants to be, but down here every boy is taught that he must be President, even if he has to kill the former one, and they have tried to live up to their teaching, so it's just another case of some bad boy taking what he thinks is rightfully his."
"I suppose they will stop the trains out of town, and march in."
"Oh no they won't—they will ride those trains into the heart of the town, screaming and yelling and shooting at anybody that happens to be in sight, at least that is the way they always have done, and Mex's never change."
"I hope the rebels don't arrive before the funeral is over—that would be awful."
"I'll say it would," as the car stopped. "Come on, here's where we drink—come on, driver." They all went in.