A PRETTY MAID AND A GAMECHICK
The December days sped on, and Christmas was nearing. As the great,
splendid fort was a shut-in place, the people in it made great
preparations for Christmas, if only to forget that they were shut in.
The Christmas Eve exhibition drill and music ride was to be the
principal event of the season, and, wonder of wonders, Anita was to
ride with Broussard at the music ride. This was not accomplished
without pleadings and even tears from Anita. Mrs. Fortescue took no
part in this affair between the Colonel and the adored of his heart;
Anita and the Colonel had always settled their problems between
themselves solely. Sergeant McGillicuddy had something to do with
wringing from the Colonel his consent that Anita should ride with
Broussard.
"Accordin' to my way of thinkin', Mr. Broussard is the best rider of
all the young orficers, sir," said McGillicuddy to the Colonel, in the
seclusion of the office. "Miss Anita, she'd look mighty pretty ridin'
with him, and Pretty Maid is as quiet as a lamb, sir, under the saddle.
I wouldn't answer for her in shafts, sir. Lord! There's nothin' too
devilish for a horse to do in shafts, or hitched to a pole. Missis
McGillicuddy can't see it in this light, judgin' from the Christmas
gift she's preparin' to give me."
"What is it, McGillicuddy?" asked the Colonel.
"It's a buggy, sir," answered the Sergeant despondently. "When I
wanted to enlist in the aviation corps that woman, sir, forbid it; she
said to me, 'Patrick McGillicuddy, I never did believe one word about
your bein' afraid av horses in wheeled vehicles.' An' ivery time I go
up in a flyin' machine, just for the fun av it, Missis McGillicuddy,
she says to me 'Patrick, if they was to lop off the f from that flyin'
machine, it would fit you to a t, bedad!' And that's the way she talks
to me when I spent seven dollars and fifty cents in gettin'
prognostications that I was goin' to marry a woman as would follow me
around like a poodle dog!"
"Women have a good many burrs in their convolutions," said the Colonel,
lighting a cigar and handing a handful to the Sergeant.
"They has, sir," replied McGillicuddy, accepting the cigars with
doleful gratitude, "and Missis McGillicuddy threatens to take me out in
that buggy on Christmas day. Well, sir, I've made my will and settled
up my account at the post trader's, and the aviation orficer has
promised to tak' me on a fly Christmas Eve morning. It may be the last
fly I'll take until I get wings, for I hardly expects, sir, to escape
the dangers of that buggy."
In talking with Mrs. Fortescue about the music ride Colonel Fortescue
dwelt upon the superiority of a quiet horse like Pretty Maid over a
constitutional kicker like Birdseye.
"It's the quiet ones, horses and women, that need watching," replied
Mrs. Fortescue, who had never been accused of being a quiet one.
For two weeks before Christmas the exhibition drill and music ride was
the great subject of attention at Fort Blizzard. The most interesting
part of the show was the music ride, in which the girls of the post
were to ride, each girl having her attendant cavalier. When it was
known that Anita was to ride with Broussard all the other
sublieutenants who had hoped to sit in Broussard's saddle promptly
provided themselves with other charming young ladies of the post. Next
to Anita, the best rider was Sally Harlow, the daughter of her who had
been Sally Carteret. Mrs. Harlow followed the example of Mrs.
Fortescue, whose bridesmaid she had been, and had married within a year
the dashing young officer with whom she "stood up" at Mrs. Fortescue's
wedding. Mrs. Harlow, like Mrs. Fortescue, showed a marked inability
to grow old and was as gay and drank the wine of life as joyously as
did her daughter, Sally the Second.
For a fortnight before Christmas the practice rides took place every
afternoon in the great riding hall, in which four troops of cavalry
could manoeuvre.
As the daughter of the C. O., Anita, with Broussard, was to lead the
girl riders and their cavaliers. Broussard called punctually at the
Colonel's quarters for Anita, on the red December afternoons, when the
air was like champagne and Broussard felt as if his veins ran wine
instead of blood. The After-Clap, under Kettle's secret instructions,
became valuable ally of Broussard's. Kettle managed that the baby's
afternoon ride in his wicker carriage should coincide with Broussard's
arrival. The dark-eyed baby, in his little white fur coat and cap and
white fur blanket, looked like a snowdrop by the side of Kettle, who,
except his shiny teeth, was so black it seemed as if he had been coated
with shoe polish. The After-Clap always hailed Broussard with a
vigorous shout of "Bruvver! Bruvver!" and Kettle invariably explained:
"He's a-tryin' to say 'Mr. Boosard.'"
At this Broussard would laugh and agree with Kettle that the After-Clap
was the knowingest baby in the world, and Anita would blush
beautifully. Colonel Fortescue's heart sank when he saw Broussard and
Anita walking off together; Broussard so trim and soldierly in his
riding uniform and Anita so amazingly pretty in her blue habit and cap,
cunningly imitating the cavalry uniform, a fetching dress adopted by
all the young ladies who were to take part in the music ride.
The drill and ride were to begin at eight o'clock on Christmas Eve, and
afterward there was to be a big ball, for at Fort Blizzard the young
girls and young officers ended everything with a ball, where they could
"chase the glowing hours with flying feet."
A great silver moon and a mighty host of palpitating stars put the
electric lights to shame on Christmas Eve. When Broussard called for
Anita, a little before eight, she was waiting, already dressed in the
pretty imitation of an officer's uniform--a costume that would make
even a plain girl enchanting, and how much more so the violet-eyed
Anita? Mrs. Fortescue, in a beautiful ball gown, looked quite as
handsome as her daughter. The regimental tailor had been busy all day
letting out Colonel Fortescue's full dress uniform and the Colonel
fondly hoped that a couple of inches he had gained in girth were
concealed by the tailor's art. But Mrs. Fortescue's quick eye
discerned it.
"I declare, Jack," she cried, showing off her own figure, as slim as a
girl's, "I shall have to put you on a diet of lemon juice and slate
pencils if you keep on getting stout!"
At which the Colonel glowered darkly and Anita, putting her arms about
his neck, whispered:
"Never mind, dear, darling daddy, I love you just the same."
[Illustration: "Never mind, dear, darling daddy, I love you just the
same."]
Mrs. Fortescue, who would have been affable to the Evil One himself,
smiled at Broussard. The Colonel was polite but not effusive, having
developed a rooted dislike to junior unmarried officers as soon as he
found out that Anita had to grow up, like other human beings.
Broussard felt himself in Paradise when he was walking with Anita along
the moonlit plaza toward the riding hall. Outside, troopers were
leading the restless horses up and down. Pretty Maid did not belie her
name, and was the best behaved, as she was the handsomest, of all the
mounts of the young ladies. Broussard's Gamechick, a perfectly trained
cavalry charger, with an eye and ear of beautiful intelligence, had not
his superior among the horses. Sergeant McGillicuddy, who was the best
man with horses at Fort Blizzard, was sauntering about, looking at the
horses approvingly and saying to all who cared to hear:
"As good a lot of nags as ever I see, and every blarsted one of 'em has
got four legs. It's mighty seldom nowadays, you see a four-legged
horse; most of 'em has only three legs and some of 'em ain't got as
much as two and a half."
The riders, all wearing the same uniform as Broussard and Anita,
appeared by twos and fours; bright-eyed young officers and merry girls.
Their part was not to come for an hour, but they declared the night was
too lovely to go into the waiting-room, and they strolled about and
talked horses and dancing and balls and all the happy things that fall
out "when youth and pleasure meet."
In the midst of the chatter of the riders and stamping and champing of
the blanketed horses, as they were led up and down, Kettle suddenly
appeared carrying in his arms a white bundle, which turned out to be
the After-Clap. He should have been asleep in his crib for hours, but
instead he was wide awake, laughing and crowing and evidently meant,
with Kettle's assistance, to make a night of it.
"What do you mean, Kettle, by bringing the baby out this time of
night?" asked the surprised Anita.
"I got him all wropped up warm," answered Kettle, apologetically,
pointing to the After-Clap's white fur coat and cap. "But that chile
knowed there wuz a hoss show on--it's mighty little he doan' know, and
after the Kun'l and Miss Betty lef', he begin' to cry for 'Horsey!
Horsey!' an I jes' had to take him up an' dress him an' bring him here.
An' that's Gord's truth, Miss Anita," a phrase Kettle habitually used
when making doubtful statements.
The baby was so obviously happy in this breach of all nursery
discipline that Anita had not the heart to send him home. Anita was a
soft-hearted creature. Sergeant McGillicuddy, however, explained
disgustedly to the waiting troopers and horses how the After-Clap was
permitted to begin his career of dissipation.
"I'll bet you a million of monkeys," the Sergeant proclaimed, "as
Missis McGillicuddy wasn't on hand when that there baby begun to yell
'Horsey! Horsey!' if he ever did it at all. With eight children av
her own and Anna Mariar's beau, Missis McGillicuddy must sometimes stop
at home. Lord help the naygur if Missis McGillicuddy should favor this
evint with her prisince!"
The sympathies of the soldiers were entirely with the After-Clap, who
loved soldiers, knowing them to be his true friends, and was never
happier than with his big, kind, blue-coated playmates, the troopers,
with their rattling sabres and clanking spurs.
Sergeant McGillicuddy, being himself under Mrs. McGillicuddy's iron
rule, did not approve of Kettle's breach of discipline and hatched a
scheme to catch him. With a countenance as inscrutable as the Sphinx,
he stepped to the telephone booth, shut the door carefully, and held a
short conversation over the wire with Mrs. McGillicuddy. When the
Sergeant came out of the telephone booth his face was not inscrutable
but expressed pure human joy and triumph.
"It's Missis McGillicuddy as 'll do for ye," said the Sergeant with a
grin, going up to Kettle, holding the delighted After-Clap in his arms.
"Go 'long, man," answered Kettle, "Mrs. McGillicuddy ain't my boss.
She's yourn."
This language, uttered toward a man with chevrons and three stripes on
his sleeve, naturally incensed the Sergeant. He had learned, however,
in twenty years of warfare with Kettle, that it was very hard to get
him punished.
"The naygur never has found out that orders is orders," remarked the
Sergeant to the lookers on. "But Missis McGillicuddy can wallop him
with one hand tied behind her back, and she'll do it, too, when she
finds out about the kiddie bein' out this time of night."
This was no idle threat. Fifteen minutes later, when Kettle and the
After-Clap were at the height of their enjoyment, Mrs. McGillicuddy,
with only a shawl over her head, in the keen December night, was seen
stalking across the plaza and toward the group of men and horses
outside the drill ball; the riders had trooped into the waiting-room
for coffee and sandwiches before the ride began. The troopers, who
knew and admired Mrs. McGillicuddy, made way for her respectfully as
she swooped down on Kettle, to his complete surprise.
"Solomon!" shouted Mrs. McGillicuddy.
Whenever Mrs. McGillicuddy used Kettle's baptismal name it meant the
same thing as when Colonel Fortescue called Mrs. Fortescue
"Elizabeth,"--there was trouble brewing.
"And it's you," continued Mrs. McGillicuddy, in a voice like a bassoon
in a rage, "as the Colonel and Mrs. Fortescue trusted their innocent
lamb, and when they are peacefully watchin' the show you take this pore
baby out of his warm bed and brings him out here to catch his death of
cold, and Patrick McGillicuddy, you'll laugh on the wrong side of your
face when I get you home, and the Colonel shall know this, if my name
is Araminta McGillicuddy."
With that Mrs. McGillicuddy tore the After-Clap from Kettle's arms.
Like Kettle and McGillicuddy and the admiring crowd of troopers, the
baby knew enough to maintain silence when Mrs. McGillicuddy had the
floor.
"Right 'bout face and march," screamed Mrs. McGillicuddy to Kettle, who
meekly obeyed her, "and McGillicuddy 'll hear from me when he comes
home to-night!"
Mrs. McGillicuddy then, with Kettle walking in advance, his head
hanging down, followed with the After-Clap and took the way to the C.
O.'s quarters, where the baby, much to his disappointment, was again
laid in his crib and Kettle was promised terrors to come like those of
the Day of Judgment.
McGillicuddy, standing in the moonlight among the riderless horses and
grinning troopers, forestalled criticism by handing out a card on which
a legend was inscribed in large letters.
"Boys," said the Sergeant, solemnly, "there's my rule for all married
men in the service and out av it. It's the Golden Rule of married
life, boys, and it ought to be added to the Articles of War and the
Regulations. Here it is, boys, 'Doant munkey with the buzz saw.'"
Meanwhile, within the vast riding hall the splendid pageant was taking
place. The lofty roof was hung with flags of all nations entwined with
ropes and wreaths of Christmas greens and crimson and gold electric
lights. In the middle of the roof, dark and high, hung a great silken
flag of the United States, with the electric lights so arranged as to
throw a halo of glory upon it. The galleries were full of officers and
ladies in brilliant ball costumes for the ball that was to follow.
Under the galleries the soldiers and their families were massed. Over
the wide entrance door was the musicians' gallery, where the regimental
band, and Neroda, their leader, a handsome Italian, with their gleaming
instruments, made a great splash of vivid color against the sombre
wall. Opposite the entrance was the Commanding Officer's box,
beautifully draped with flags and wreaths of holly. In the box sat the
Colonel and Mrs. Fortescue, both looking wonderfully young and
handsome. The Colonel caught sight of the chaplain peering in at a
window below; the chaplain knew a horse from an automobile, and loved
horses too much for the good of his soul, so he thought. In a moment a
messenger came with the Colonel's compliments and the request for the
chaplain's company, and the chaplain obeyed with alacrity and a joy
almost unholy.
Above the murmur of conversation and laughter the band dominated,
playing soft Italian music. Suddenly and silently, as if in a dream,
the great entrance doors drew apart, the band changed into a great
military fanfare, and a splendid troop of cavalry charged in, the lithe
young troopers and the sleek horses with muscles of steel under their
satin skins, horse and man moving as one. After a dash around the
hall, they proceeded to show what troopers and horses could do. The
soldiers rode bareback and upside down, got on and off the horses in
ways incredible, made pyramids of troopers, the horses galloping at
full speed, stopped like machines, dismounted, the horses lay down and
the troopers, at full length, pounded out deadly imaginary volleys into
unseen enemies.
When this was over and the troopers had trotted out amid thunders of
applause, the great doors again slid open as if by magic and a battery
of light artillery rushed in, the band thundering out "For He Is a Son
of a Gun." The drivers, with four horses to each gun, sat like
statues, as did the three artillerymen, erect, with folded arms, as
straight and still as men of steel, and their backs to the horses, as
the guns sped around the hall and turned and twisted marvellously,
never a wheel touching, but always within three inches of disaster.
Loud applause greeted the wonderful spectacle of gunners, horses and
gun carriages inspired by an almost superhuman intelligence.
When the battery had passed out and the doors were closed there was a
short pause. The next and last event was the music ride by the
officers and girls, the prettiest sight in the world. Middle-aged
matrons and gray-mustached officers smiled in anticipation of seeing
their rosebud daughters, on beautiful horses, admired and applauded of
all.
In the C. O.'s box, Mrs. Fortescue, opening her fan, leaned over and
smiled into the Colonel's face.
"She'll do it," whispered the Colonel confidently, meaning that Anita
would do her act more gracefully and brilliantly than any girl who ever
rode a horse.
The band once more struck up, the great doors drew wide apart, this
time with a clang, and the procession of youth and beauty and valor
dashed upon the tanbark. The officers were resplendent, while the
girls, in their daring imitation of the uniform and with cavalry caps
upon their pretty heads, looked like young Amazons riding to war.
Broussard and Anita, who led the cavalcade, were the best riders where
all were good. Pretty Maid and Gamechick seemed on the best of terms
and their stride fitted perfectly.
The procession circled around the hall at a canter, and as Anita and
Broussard, leading the procession, reached a point in front of the C.
O.'s box, they both saluted, Anita raising her little gauntleted hand
to her cavalry cap. Colonel Fortescue stood up and returned the salute
as the riders passed, two by two. Next began the scene of beautiful
horsemanship, pure and simple, winding up with the Virginia reel, done
by the riders on horseback, as the band played the old reel, "Billy in
the Low Grounds."
Then came the last feature of all; the ride formed again, and, suddenly
quickening their pace to a full gallop, started upon the circuit of the
hall. They swept around the circle at a sharp gallop, the clanking
spurs and rattling sabres keeping time to the roar of the music. Anita
was riding like a bird on the wing and Pretty Maid, who had behaved
with her usual grace and decorum, opening and shutting her stride like
a machine. Just as she got in front of the C. O.'s box the mare
suddenly lost her head. She hesitated, bringing her four feet together
in a way that would have thrown over her head a rider less expert than
Anita. Behind her the line of riders was thrown into slight confusion
with the unexpected halt.
The movements of animals are so much quicker than those of men that the
eye can scarcely follow them. One instant Anita was in her saddle; the
next Pretty Maid stopped, crouched, gave a wild spring, fell prone on
her knees, and rolled over, struggling violently. Anita, half thrown
and half slipped from her saddle, was on the tanbark, directly in front
of Gamechick.
She straightened out her slim figure full length, and closed her eyes.
Broussard's horse was then not six feet away from her and coming on as
if the trumpeters were sounding the charge.
A great groan rose from the floor and the galleries; the band played on
wildly, losing its perfect tempo and each musician playing for himself,
but still playing as a band should play on in terrible crises. The
line of riders was sharply checked, the perfectly trained horses coming
to a dead stop within ten seconds. In the C. O.'s box the chaplain was
on his feet, his hands clasped in silent supplication; Mrs. Fortescue,
braver than a brave soldier, put her arm about her husband's neck, as
Colonel Fortescue swayed about in his seat like a drunken man. Amid
the blare of the band and the riders and chargers almost upon the
struggling horse and motionless girl, lying on the tanbark, Broussard,
coolly, as if he were on the parade ground, lifted Gamechick by the
bridle, gave him a touch of the spur, and the next moment cleared both
mare and girl, with twenty inches between Gamechick's iron-shod hind
hoofs and Anita's beautiful blonde head.
[Illustration: Broussard, lifted Gamechick by the bridle and the next
moment cleared both mare and girl.]
It had all passed in twenty seconds by the clock, but to those who
watched it seemed a long hour of agony. The moment the leap was made,
Anita sprang to her feet and Broussard was on the tanbark. Wild
cheering almost drowned the crash of the band; some of the women were
weeping and others laughing hysterically, the men cheering like madmen.
Broussard smilingly picked up Anita's cavalry cap, which had fallen on
the tanbark, brushed it and put it on Anita's pretty head; some words,
unheard by others, passed between them. The mare then lay perfectly
quiet. Broussard, amid the roar of cheers and shouts and furious
handclapping and music, got the mare on her feet. She stood trembling,
frightened and ashamed; Anita patted her neck gently and rubbed her
nose reassuringly. Then Broussard, taking the girl's slender waist
between his hands, swung her into her saddle, himself mounted, and, the
riders falling in behind, it was as if Tragedy had not showed her awful
visage for one fearful moment.
All the cheering and clapping and weeping and laughing and shouting
that had gone before were nothing to what followed after, while the
band played "For He Is a Jolly Good Fellow," and everybody who could
sing, or thought he could sing, joined in the refrain. Colonel
Fortescue, whiter than death, sat straight up in his place. Mrs.
Fortescue whispered in his ear:
"Be brave,--brave as you were in battle."
Colonel Fortescue had been in battle, but the screaming shells and
crash of machine guns brought with them no such wild and shivering
terror as when he saw Gamechick's forefeet in the air over Anita, lying
on the tanbark.
The procession passed once more around the hall, Anita's face flushed
and smiling, Broussard outwardly calm, but the red blood showing under
his dark skin. When they reached the entrance doors and were about to
ride out Sergeant McGillicuddy stopped Broussard with a word. The
audience, watching and smiling, knew what would happen and all eyes
were fixed on the C. O.'s. box. In a minute Broussard, with his
cavalry cap in his hand, was seen mounting the stairs; Colonel
Fortescue rose and clasped Broussard's hand, while Mrs. Fortescue
frankly kissed him on both cheeks. The band broke loose again and so
did the people. Although Fort Blizzard was a great fort it was so far
away in the frozen northwest that those within its walls constituted
one vast family. Anita was known to all of them, officers and ladies,
troopers and troopers' wives and children, and the company washerwomen,
and the regimental blacksmiths; they felt as if Broussard had saved the
life of a child of their own.
Colonel Fortescue was a soldier and recovered himself and walked
bravely with Mrs. Fortescue in the moonlight to their quarters,
Broussard and Anita riding ahead as if nothing had happened, when
everything had happened. At the door Broussard left Anita; both had to
dress for the ball.
In the office, his City of Refuge, Colonel Fortescue sat in his chair
and trembled like a leaf. Mrs. Fortescue, with tender words and soft
caresses, comforted him.
"Stay with me, dear wife," he said, "I tell you as truly as if I were
this moment facing a firing squad that I never knew what fear was until
this night, and yet I thought I knew it and could feel my heart
quivering as I cheered my men to the charge. Betty, I love our child
too much, too much!"
"No," said Mrs. Fortescue, kissing his cheek, "you don't love her half
as much as you love me. Suppose I had been there in our child's place."
The Colonel put his arm over his face.
"Don't, Betty--I can't bear it," he cried.
"But you must bear it; you must go to the ball in twenty minutes."
The Colonel, with bewildered eyes, looked at her as if to ask what were
balls, and where?
Mrs. Fortescue said no more. Presently they heard Anita's light step
on the stairs. She flitted into the office and looked, in her ball
gown of shimmering white, as pure and sweet as one of her white doves.
"I'm ready for the ball, dad," she said, smiling and kissing the
Colonel and her mother, "I am a soldier's daughter, and I can't let a
little thing keep me from my duty--which is, to go to the ball."
Colonel Fortescue caught her in his arms.
"What a spirit!" he cried brokenly, "You have the making of ten
soldiers in you, my daughter, my little daughter!"
Mrs. Fortescue rose and drew her beautiful evening cloak around her.
Colonel Fortescue noticed for the first time how pale she was, but
there was a smile on her lips and the fine light of courage in her eye;
it was partly from her that Anita inherited her brave spirit.
Colonel Fortescue rose, too; he could not be less brave than his wife
and daughter. Anita kissed him tenderly; a soft-hearted deserter
always takes an affectionate leave of his comrades when he is about to
desert.
At the ball Colonel and Mrs. Fortescue were composed, smiling,
graceful; Anita was less shy, more laughing than usual. When Broussard
entered the ball-room he was greeted with a great roar of applause, and
when he danced the first dance with Anita once more there was applause
and something in the eyes of the smiling, handclapping crowd that
brought the ever-ready color into Anita's delicately lovely face. It
was a beautiful ball, as all military balls are, and lasted late. When
the C. O. and Mrs. Fortescue and Anita got home it was Christmas
morning, and the stars that led the Magi to the crib at Bethlehem were
shining gloriously in the blue-black sky.
At daybreak began the hullabaloo which attends Christmas morning in a
house where there is an adored child, and only one. The After-Clap,
with the preternatural knowledge claimed for him by Kettle, knew that
it was Christmas morning and a day of riot and license for him.
At an early hour he began to storm the earth and stun the air. There
was a Christmas tree for him and for the eight McGillicuddies, and the
day was so full that Mrs. Fortescue found it hard to get time in which
to give Kettle the necessary wigging for taking the baby from his bed
and carrying him out of doors at eight o'clock in the evening because
he waked up and said "Horsey." In vain Kettle pleaded "fo' Gord--"
always a forerunner of a tarradiddle--that he "didn't have no notion on
the blessed yearth as Miss Betty would mind," and also wept copiously
when Mrs. Fortescue frankly told him that he was a tarradiddler, and
made, for the hundredth time, a very awful threat to Kettle.
"But I can tell you this much," she said, with great severity, "that if
you keep on doing everything the baby tells you to do, I will buy you a
ticket back to Virginia and send you home. Do you understand me?"
At this, a smile rivalling a rainbow suddenly overspread Kettle's face
and his mouth came open like an alligator's.
"Lord, yes, I understand you, Miss Betty," Kettle replied, with a
chuckle. "I knows when you is bullyraggin' me an' say you is goin' to
sen' me back to Virginia, you is jes' jokin'. You done tole me that
too oftin, Miss Betty, an' you ain't never give me no ticket yet, an'
'tain't nothin' but a sign you is comin' roun', Miss Betty."
Kettle's grin was so seductive and his reasoning so correct that Mrs.
Fortescue suddenly laughed, too; there was no way short of putting
Kettle in handcuffs and leg-irons to keep him from obeying the
After-Clap, whose orders were _orders_ to Kettle.
In the afternoon Colonel Fortescue, sitting in his office, from which
not even Christmas Day exempted him, saw, a long way off, down by the
non-coms' quarters, a pitiful sight. Mrs. McGillicuddy had carried out
her menace to put a buggy in the Sergeant's Christmas stocking. The
buggy was at the Sergeant's door, and in it sat Mrs. McGillicuddy,
elaborately dressed, a picture hat and feathers on her carefully
frizzed hair and her voluminous draperies nearly swamping the little
Sergeant cowering in the corner of the buggy. To it was hitched the
milkman's mare, which was about as big as a large rabbit and owned up
to twenty-three years of age and the name of Dot. The equipage passed
out of sight but in an hour was seen returning. Mrs. McGillicuddy sat
majestically upright in the buggy, while the Sergeant bestrode the
peaceful and amiable Dot.
[Illustration: Mrs. McGillicuddy sat majestically upright in the buggy
while the Sergeant bestrode the peaceful and amiable Dot.]
Presently the Sergeant, looking much wilted and depressed, entered the
Colonel's office.
"Did you enjoy your drive in the new buggy, Sergeant?" asked the
Colonel.
"No, sir," replied the Sergeant, earnestly, "this has been a awful
Christmas day to me. I didn't think as Missis McGillicuddy would play
me such a low trick as to give me the buggy and then make me ride in
it. She said as the milkman told her he had owned the mare fir
thirteen years, and she wasn't young when he bought her; but I reminded
her as thirteen was a unlucky number. But Missis McGillicuddy acted
heartless and give orders as I was to mount that buggy. I pleadid with
her, sir, not to risk my life, for the sake of the eight children, even
if she didn't have no love or affection for me. I reminded her as
she'd stand a divil of a chanst of gettin' married again, havin' all
them eight children. I told her the aviation orficer had promised to
take me flyin' with him to-morrow mornin', and if I lost my life in a
wheeled vehicle there'd be no more flyin' fir me because I don't look
to be a angel immediate I get into the next world. All she says to me
was, like she was a Sergeant Major and I was a recruity, 'You get into
this buggy, Patrick McGillicuddy.' So, as orders is orders, sir, I got
in, and I stayed in until my fears of that horse's hind feet right
under nay nose got the better of my duty to Missis McGillicuddy, as my
superior orficer. I begun to feel hollow inside, like a man feels when
he's ordered into action and the artillery is ploughing up the ground
with shells. Then, sir, I mutinied. I jumped out of that damned
buggy--excuse me, sir--and I got on the back of the mare and felt jist
as safe as if I was riding old Corporal, the horse we gives the
recruits to ride. I've escaped the dangers of that buggy and there
won't be no vacancy in my grade yet awhile from ridin' in wheeled
vehicles. An I'm goin' flyin' tomorrow in a nice safe aeroplane that's
got a man hitched to it and not a horse. This ain't been no merry
Christmas to me, sir. And if Missis McGillicuddy holds a reg'lar court
of inquiry on me, as she does seven nights in the week, I'm a' goin' to
stand on my rights and swear by the Jumpin' Moses I'll never set foot
again in that damned, infernal, hellish buggy, sir,--excuse me, sir."