"Well, for one thing, I'm not sure how I'd behave in battle.

I might be intelligent enough to run; I might be ass enough to fight.

The enemy would have to take its chances." The boy laughed, too, turned to the window, and suddenly caught Berkley by the arm: "Look! There's something going on down by the Astor House!" "A Massachusetts regiment of embattled farmers arrived in this hamlet last night.

I believe they are to pass by here on their way to Washington," remarked Berkley, opening the window and leaning out.
Already dense crowds of people were pushing, fighting, forcing their way past the windows, driven before double lines of police; already distant volleys of cheers sounded; the throb of drums became audible; the cheering sounded shriller, nearer.
Past the windows, through Broadway, hordes of ragged street arabs came running, scattered into night before another heavy escort of police.

And now the on-coming drums could be heard more distinctly; and now two dusty officers marched into view, a colonel of Massachusetts infantry attended by a quartermaster of New York militia.
Behind them tramped the regimental band of the 6th Massachusetts, instruments slung; behind these, filling the street from gutter to gutter, surged the sweating drummers, deafening every ear with their racket; then followed the field and staff, then the Yankee regiment, wave on wave of bayonets choking the thoroughfare far as the eye could see, until there seemed no end to their coming, and the cheering had become an unbroken howl.
Stephen turned to Berkley: "A fellow can't see too much of this kind of thing and stand it very long.