their pie, eyes wandering
wonderingly over the magic landscape. Here and there a marquee
marked some general's headquarters, but except for these there were
no tents save shelter tents in sight, and not so many of these,
because many divisions had bivouacked, and others were in
cantonments where the white cupola of some house glimmered, or the
thin spire of a church pierced green trees.

Here and there they noted and pointed out to each other roads over
which cavalry moved or long waggon trains crept. Down along the
swamps that edged the river they could see soldiers building
corduroy, repairing bridges, digging ditches, and, in one spot,
erecting a fort.

"Oh, hell," said Casson, whose regiment, dismounted, had served
muddy apprenticeship along the York River, "if they're going to
begin that kind of thing again I'd rather be at home laying gas
pipes on Broadway!"

"What kind of thing?" demanded Stephen.

"That road making, swamp digging--all that fixing up forts for big
guns that nobody has a chance to fire because the Johnnies get out
just when everything's ready to blow 'em into the Union again.
A--h!" he added in disgust, "didn't we have a dose of that at
Yorktown and Williamsburg? Why doesn't Little Mac start us
hell-bent for Richmond and let us catch 'em on the jump?"

For a while, their mouths full of pie, the soldiers, with the
exception of Berkley, criticised their commander-in-chief,
freely--their corps commanders, and every officer down to their
particular corporals. That lasted for ten minutes. Then one and
all began comparing these same maligned officers most favourably
with other officers of other corps; and they ended, as usual, by
endorsing their commander-in-chief with enthusiasm, and by praising
every officer under whom they served.

Then they boasted of their individual regiments--all except
Berkley--extolling their discipline, their marching, their foraging
efficiency, their martyr-like endurance.

"What's your Colonel like, anyway?" inquired Casson, turning to
Berkley.

"He's a good officer," said the latter indifferently.

"Do you like him?"

"He has--merit."

"Jerusalem!" laughed Wye, "if that isn't a kick in the seat of his
pants!"

Berkley reddened. "You're mistaken, Arthur."

"Didn't you tell me at Alexandria that you hated him?"

"I said that--yes. I was disappointed because the Westchester
Horse was not attached to John Casson's regiment. . . . I
don't--dislike