Arthur, I saw your battery horses; they belong in a glue factory.

How arc you going to save your guns when the rebs come after you ?" "God knows, especially if the Zouaves support us," replied Wye, yawning again.

Then, rising: "I've got to get back to that cursed fort.

I'll escort anybody who'll let me." "One more glass, then," said Cortlandt.

"Berkley, fill the parting cup! Ladies of the Canterbury, fair sharers of our hospitality who have left the triumphs of the drama to cheer the unfortunate soldier on his war-ward way, I raise my glass and drink to each Terpsichorean toe which, erstwhile, was pointed skyward amid the thunder of metropolitan plaudits, and which now demurely taps my flattered carpet.