"You have the devil's luck, Berkley," he said without bitterness.
"I need it."
"So you do, poor old boy. But—God! you play like a professional."
Wye yawned, thrust his strong, thin hands into his trousers pockets, and looked stupidly at the ceiling.
"I wish to heaven they'd start our battery," he said vacantly.
"I'm that sick of Hamilton!"
Casson grumbled again, settling his debts with Berkley.
"Everybody has the devil's own luck except the poor God-forsaken cavalry. Billy Cortlandt goes tomorrow, your battery is under orders, but nobody cares what happens to the cavalry. And they're the eyes and ears of an army——"
"They're the heels and tail of it," observed Berkley, "and the artillery is the rump."
"Shut up, you sneering civilian!"
"I'm shutting up—shop—unless anybody cares to try one last cold hand—" He caught the eye of the girl at the piano and smiled pallidly. "'Quid non mortalia pectora cogis, auri sacra fames!' Also I have them all scared to death, Miss Carew—the volunteer army of our country is taking water."