called typical cases, and traceable, as a rule, to
Skidmore's; but Blenke's, like Blenke himself, was individual and
peculiar. Moreover, it savored of the mysterious.

The man seemed overwhelmed with mortification and distress. No one at
Minneconjou had ever known him to take so much as a glass of wine. No
one at Minneconjou among either officers or men ever really knew him at
all, for Blenke kept his own counsel, lived entirely to himself, was
neat as a new pin, prompt and accurate on duty, smart in dress--more so
than many of his officers, if truth be told--ready, respectful and in
fine a model soldier. But he had no friends nor intimates; he had no
confidants, unless we except Priscilla, to whom he had told much more
than Sandy Ray, when told, would for a moment believe. He came before
the court after two days' incarceration, neat and trim as though just
off inspection. He stood with swimming eyes before the desk, pleaded
guilty throughout, declined to summon a soul to say a good word for him
or his general character, would not even glance at the group of officers
hovering inquisitively about, would not even plead "first offense" or
urge a syllable in mitigation of sentence, even though the allegations
against him, as the court intimated to his captain, "seemed piling it
on." One specification might well have covered the entire tale of his
misdoing, but he stood accused of absence from quarters between taps and
reveille, of presence in premises where he had no possible right to be,
and finally of utter drunkenness. Blenke pleaded guilty to all, and
humbly said that, had there been more accusation, he would have done the
same, for he knew nothing of what occurred after fifteen minutes at
Skidmore's somewhere toward midnight.

Now, the court wished to know and the listeners wished to hear some
explanation of his having turned up so far from the beaten track; of his
having, when so drunk, managed to walk so far; of his having, in fine,
entered the yard of Major Dwight's quarters. What could have suggested
that? But Blenke knew no more than the dead. The only quarters of late
he ever visited were those of Lieutenant Ray, where, said Blenke--and
here the woe in his visage was indeed pathetic--he should never again
dare show his face. Time had been--a happy time--when he had daily,
almost hourly, duties at the quarters now occupied by Major Dwight, whom
he so honored; but that was while his kind friends of Lieutenant Ray's