"Hang Burrows—he'll have take a back seat."
"One thing more, La Mancha. In this particularly risky business has it occurred to you that you ought to have steady employment?"
"I'll have to turn 'road agent' otherwise."
"Rather than that, I'll give you a note to my friend General Buster, who, I know, is looking out for a good man. Ride down and see to-morrow, and while you're about it take a two weeks' furlough up to the date of your discharge. Why, that's the twenty-fifth, your wedding-day!"
"It's awfully good of you, sir."
"Don't mention it. I'll send you the letter by the Orderly Corporal. Ask him to step this way."
"Oh, you poor devils," said the Blackguard, lying at ease on his blankets, to half a dozen men at work in the tent cleaning their accoutrements for to-morrow's muster parade. "Sweat, you poor workers; ram your button-sticks down your throats for coolness."
One of the boys heaved a boot brush at him, which he caught deftly. "Now I'm richer," he said "by a brush. Gentlemen, this brush of solid squat root, bristled out of the Quartermaster's private beard, heavy with valuable blacking,—how much am I offered for this brush?"
"Damn you and your brush."
"One damn for the brush. Gentlemen, I am offered one for this priceless object of virtue—one damn I am offered,—going at one—going—going—positively thrown away!" and he flung it at the owner's head, making a bull's-eye.