“He ain’t that breed of cats,” said my soldier—Private George Williams.
“Then what breed of cats is he?” asked another flippantly. Prisoners don’t stand much on ceremony.
“Tiger cat!” replied Williams. Then I saw him talking with those around him, and I inferred that he was telling about the fight.
A lieutenant whose manner I did not like—and there are a good many things I am not pleased with, when I am hungry—came to me, and in an insinuating way asked, “Any chance of making a break here?”
“I haven’t thought of it,” I replied. “I have just come.”
I distrusted the man, I do not know why, except that his manner was over sweet. Then he suggested a plan so impractical that I wondered if he was in his senses.
“What do you think of it?” he inquired.
“Good idea!” I replied, “if you are figuring to get killed.”
I turned my back on the fellow, and made up my mind that whatever plans might be made in the future, I would have no part in any that he might have a part in; which only shows how strong my prejudices are about people to whom I have taken a dislike.
“What are the chances for ‘chow,’ Williams?” I called.