But--God! you play like a professional."
Wye yawned, thrust his strong, thin hands into his trousers
pockets, and looked stupidly at the ceiling.
"I wish to heaven they'd start our battery," he said vacantly.
"I'm that sick of Hamilton!"
Casson grumbled again, settling his debts with Berkley.
"Everybody has the devil's own luck except the poor God-forsaken
cavalry. Billy Cortlandt goes tomorrow, your battery is under
orders, but nobody cares what happens to the cavalry. And they're
the eyes and ears of an army----"
"They're the heels and tail of it," observed Berkley, "and the
artillery is the rump."
"Shut up, you sneering civilian!"
"I'm shutting up--shop--unless anybody cares to try one last cold
hand--" He caught the eye of the girl at the piano and smiled
pallidly. "'_Quid non mortalia pectora cogis, auri sacra fames_!'
Also I have them all scared to death, Miss Carew--the volunteer
army of our country is taking water."
"It doesn't taste like water," said the pretty singer on the sofa,
stretching out her bubbling glass, "try it yourself, Mr. Berkley."
They went toward the music room; Cortlandt seated himself on top of
the piano. He looked rather odd there in his zouave jacket, red
trousers, white-gaitered legs hanging.
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