I was turrible sorry for his father--fine old boy!--and
he looked like he'd drop dead hisself--but, by gosh, friend, when
the stretcher took Steve to the rear the old man jest sot them
clean-cut jaws o' his'n, an' kep' his gold-wired gig-lamps to the
front. An' when the time come, he sez in his ca'm, pleasant way:
'Boys,' sez he, 'we're agoin' in. It's a part of the job,' sez he,
'that has got to be done thorough. So,' sez he, 'we'll jest mosey
along kind o' quick steppin' now, and we'll do our part like we
al'us does do it. For'rd--mar-r-rch!'"
Berkley sat still, hands clasped over his knees, thinking of
Stephen, and of Celia, and of the father out yonder somewhere amid
the smoke.
"Gawd," said the zouave, "you got a dirty jab on your cocanut,
didn't you?"
The bandage had slipped, displaying the black scab of the scarcely
healed wound; and Berkley absently replaced it.
"That'll ketch the girls," observed the zouave with conviction.
"Damn it, I've only got a sprained ankle to show my girl."
"The war's not over," said Berkley indifferently. Then he got up,
painfully, from the grass, exchanged adieux with the zouave, and
wandered off toward the hospital to seek for news of Colonel Arran.
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