heavily erect, a colossus in blue and
yellow.

"You have the devil's luck, Berkley," he said without bitterness.

"I need it."

"So you do, poor old boy. But--God! you play like a professional."

Wye yawned, thrust his strong, thin hands into his trousers
pockets, and looked stupidly at the ceiling.

"I wish to heaven they'd start our battery," he said vacantly.
"I'm that sick of Hamilton!"

Casson grumbled again, settling his debts with Berkley.

"Everybody has the devil's own luck except the poor God-forsaken
cavalry. 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. 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. Gentlemen--soldiers and civilians--I give you
three toasts! Miss Carew, Miss Lynden, Miss Trent! Long may they
dance! Hu