“Private Simmons, E Comp'ny, on the Cavalry p'rade-ground, Sir, with thirty rounds,” said a Sergeant breathlessly to the Colonel. “Shootin' right and lef', Sir. Shot Private Losson. What's to be done, Sir?”
Colonel John Anthony Deever, C.B., sallied out, only to be saluted by s spurt of dust at his feet.
“Pull up!” said the Second in Command; “I don't want my step in that way, Colonel. He's as dangerous as a mad dog.”
“Shoot him like one, then,” said the Colonel, bitterly, “if he won't take his chance, My regiment, too! If it had been the Towheads I could have under stood.”
Private Simmons had occupied a strong position near a well on the edge of the parade-ground, and was defying the regiment to come on. The regiment was not anxious to comply, for there is small honor in being shot by a fellow-private. Only Corporal Slane, rifle in band, threw himself down on the ground, and wormed his way toward the well.
“Don't shoot,” said he to the men round him; “like as not you'll hit me. I'll catch the beggar, livin'.”
Simmons ceased shouting for a while, and the noise of trap-wheels could be heard across the plain. Major Oldyn, commanding the Horse Battery, was coming back from a dinner in the Civil Lines; was driving after his usual custom—that is to say, as fast as the horse could go.
“A orf'cer! A blooming spangled orf'cer,” shrieked Simmons; “I'll make a scarecrow of that orf'cer!” The trap stopped.
“What's this?” demanded the Major of Gunners. “You there, drop your rifle.”
“Why, it's Jerry Blazes! I ain't got no quarrel with you, Jerry Blazes. Pass frien', an' all's well!”