"Jerusalem!" laughed Wye, "if that isn't a kick in the seat of his pants!"
Berkley reddened. "You're mistaken, Arthur."
"Didn't you tell me at Alexandria that you hated him?"
"I said that—yes. I was disappointed because the Westchester Horse was not attached to John Casson's regiment. . . . I don't—dislike Colonel Arran."
Berkley was still red; he lay in the grass on his stomach, watching the big cloud pile on the horizon.
"You know," said Casson, "that part of our army stretches as far as that smoke. We're the rear-guard."
"Listen to the guns," said Wye, pretending technical familiarity even at that distance. "They're big fellows—those Dahlgrens and Columbiads——"
"Oh, bosh!" snapped Casson, "you can't tell a howitzer from a rocket!"
Wye sat up, thoroughly offended. "To prove your dense ignorance, you yellow-bellied dragoon, let me ask you a simple question: When a shell is fired toward you can you see it coming?"
"Certainly. Didn't we see the big shells at Yorktown——"