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.
"Oh the Zou-zou-zou! Oh the Zou-zou-zou! Oh the boys of the bully Zouaves!" he hummed, swinging his legs vigorously.

"Ladies and gentlemen, it's all over but the shooting.