Fitzgibbon (cutting the newspaper and handing the halves to the sergeants). There, read to the rest, and let me have them back when done with.
Enter a Soldier with lights.
[A voice is heard in the next room, beginning to sing.
Who's that?
First Private. It's Roaring Bill, sir; shall I stop him?
Fitzgibbon. No; let him sing.
It cheers our loneliness, and does us good.
First Sergeant. Another of his own, I guess; homespun
And rough, like country cloth.
Fitzgibbon. Hush! what is that he says?
[A Cadet gently pushes one of the folding doors a little wider open.
Roaring Bill. 'Tis but a doleful ditty, boys,
With ne'er a chorus; yet I'll be bound
You'll hardly quarrel with it.