ever going into battle?" growled Jack Powell from the other
side. "Here I've been at this blamed drilling until I'm stiff in every
joint, and I haven't seen so much as the tail end of a fight. You may rant
as long as you please about martial glory, but if there's any man who
thinks it's fun merely to get dirty and eat raw food, well, he's welcome to
my share of it, that's all. I haven't had so much as one of the necessities
of life since I settled down in this old field; even my hair has taken to
standing on end. I say, Beau, do you happen to have any pomade about you?
Oh, you needn't jeer, Bland, there's no danger of your getting bald, with
that sheepskin over your scalp; and, besides, I'm willing enough to
sacrifice my life for my country. I object only to giving it my hair
instead."

"I believe you'll find a little in my knapsack," gravely replied Dan, to be
assailed on the spot by a chorus of comic demands.

"I say, Beau, have you any rouge on hand? I'm growing pale. Please drop a
little cologne on this handkerchief, my boy. May I borrow your powder puff?
I've been sitting in the sun. Don't you want that gallon of stale
buttermilk to take your tan off, Miss Nancy?"

"Oh, shut up!" cried Dan, sharply; "if you choose to turn pigs simply
because you've come out to do a little fighting, I've nothing to say
against it; but I prefer to remain a gentleman, that's all."

"He prefers to remain a gentleman, that's all," chanted the chorus round
the apple tree.

"And I'll knock your confounded heads off, if you keep this up," pursued
Dan furiously.

"And he'll knock our confounded heads off, if we keep this up," shouted the
chorus in a jubilant refrain.

"Well, I'll tell you one thing," remarked Jack Powell, feeling his
responsibility in the matter of the pomade. "All I've got to say is, if
this is what you call war, it's a pretty stale business. The next time I
want to be frisky, I'll volunteer to pass the lemonade at a Sunday-school
picnic."

"And has anybody called it war, Dandy?" inquired Bland, witheringly.

"Well, somebody might, you know," replied Jack, opening his fine white
shirt at the neck, "did I hear you call it war, Kemper?" he asked politely,
as he punched a stout sleeper beside him.

Kemper started up and aimed a blow at vacancy. "Oh, you heard the devil!"
he retorted.

"I beg your pardon; it was mistaken identity," returned Jack suavely.

"Look here, my lad, don't fool with Kemper when he's hot,