rrah!"

"Get on the table," said Casson amid the cheering, and climbed up,
spurs jingling, glass on high.

"Will it hold us all?" inquired Letty Lynden, giving her hands to
Berkley, who shrugged and swung her up beside him. "Hurrah for the
Zouaves!" she cried; "Hurrah for Billy Cortlandt!--Oh, somebody
spilled champagne all over me!"

"Hurrah for the artillery!" shouted Arthur Wye, vigorously cheering
himself and waving his glass, to the terror of Ione Carew, who
attempted to dodge the sparkling rain in vain.

"Arthur, you look like a troop of trained mice," observed Berkley
gravely. "Has anybody a toy cannon and a little flag?"

Wye descended with a hop, sprang astride a chair, and clattered
around the room, imitating his drill-master.

"Attention! By the right of batteries, break into sections, trot.
Mar-r-rch! Attention-n-n! By section from the right of
batteries--front into column. Mar-r-rch!"

"By section from the right, front into column, march!" repeated
Cortlandt, jumping down from the table and seizing another chair.
"Everybody mount a chair!" he shouted. "This is the last artillery
drill of the season. Line up there, Letty! It won't hurt your
gown. Berkley'll get you another, anyway! Now, ladies and
gentlemen, sit firmly in your saddles. Caissons to the
rear--march! Caissons, left about--pieces forward--march!"

Wye's chair buckled and he came down with a splintering crash;
Casson galloped madly about, pretending his chair had become
unmanageable. It, also, ultimately collapsed, landed him flat on
his back, whence he surveyed the exercises of the _haute ecole_ in
which three flushed and laughing young girls followed the dashing
lead of Cortlandt, while Berkley played a cavalry canter on the
piano with one hand and waved his cigar in the other.

Later, breathless, they touched glasses to the departing
volunteers, to each other, to the ladies ("God bless them! Hear!
He-ah!"), to the war, to every regiment going, to each separate
battery horse and mule in Arthur's section. And then began on the
guns,

"I prophesy a quick reunion!" said Berkley. "Here's to it! Full
glasses!

"Speech! Speech--you nimble-witted, limber-legged prophet!" roared
John Casson, throwing a pack of cards at Berkley. "Read the cards
for us!"

Berkley very gracefully caught a handful, and sorting them, began
impromptu:

"Diamonds for _you_,
Little Miss Carew,
Strung in a row,
Tied in a bow--