CHAPTER LXVIII.
“Jack,” said Alice, “every time I read this letter of poor Dory’s, I find it harder to understand how General Sheridan has so high a reputation in the North as a soldier. Can you explain it?”
“I cannot,” I replied, thumping the table fiercely with my fist; for every Whacker molecule in me stood on end.
“I can,” put in Charley, in his dry way.
I turned and fixed my eyes on that philosopher. His were fixed upon the ceiling. His head rested upon the back of his chair, his legs (they are stoutish now) were stretched across another.
“The deuse you can!” for my sturdy Saxon atoms were in arms.
Charley removed his solid limbs from the chair in front of him, with the effort and grunt of incipient obesity [incipient obesity indeed! and from you! whe-e-ew! Alice], and, walking up to the mantel-piece, rested both arms upon it at full length; then, tilting his short pipe at an angle of forty-five degrees, he surveyed me with a smile of amiable derision. “Yes, I can,” said he, at last. And with each word the short pipe nodded conviction.
“Do it, then,” said I.
“I will,” said he. And diving down into his pocket, he drew forth a manuscript; and striking an attitude, and placing his glasses (eheu, fugaces, Postume, Postume, labuntur anni) upon his oratorical nose, he unfolded the paper. Clearing his throat:
“HANNIBAL!” began he, in thunder-tones; then, dropping suddenly into his usual soft voice, and letting fall his right hand containing the paper to the level of his knee,—“this,” he added, peering gravely at us over his spectacles, “is my Essay on Military Glory!”