Transcriber’s Note
Italic text is denoted by _underscores_ in this transcription. Small
capitals text is displayed as ALLCAPS.
————
See the end of this document for details of corrections and other
changes.
—————————————————————
+——————————————————————————————————————————————+
| CAPT. CHARLES KING’S |
| |
| Popular Military Novels. |
| ———————— |
| THE COLONEL’S CHRISTMAS DINNER, |
| and Other Stories. 12mo. Extra cloth. $1.25. |
| |
| CAPTAIN BLAKE. |
| Illustrated. 12mo. Extra cloth. $1.25. |
| |
| THE COLONEL’S DAUGHTER. |
| Illustrated. 12mo. Extra cloth. $1.25. |
| |
| MARION’S FAITH. |
| Illustrated. 12mo. Extra cloth. $1.25. |
| |
| STARLIGHT RANCH, and Other Stories. |
| 12mo. Cloth. $1.00. |
| |
| KITTY’S CONQUEST. |
| 12mo. Extra cloth. $1.00. |
| |
| LARAMIE; or, The Queen of Bedlam. |
| 12mo. Cloth. $1.00. |
| |
| THE DESERTER, and FROM THE RANKS. |
| 12mo. Extra cloth. $1.00. |
| |
| TWO SOLDIERS, and DUNRAVEN RANCH. |
| 12mo. Extra cloth. $1.00. |
| |
| ——————— |
| |
| J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY, Publishers, |
| PHILADELPHIA. |
+——————————————————————————————————————————————+
[Illustration:
“She paused abruptly upon the threshold, and for an
instant simply stared at them.”
[_Frontispiece._] [See page 92.]
]
THE COLONEL’S DAUGHTER;
OR,
WINNING HIS SPURS.
BY
CAPT. CHARLES KING, U.S.A.
WITH ILLUSTRATIONS BY
A. F. HARMER.
PHILADELPHIA:
J. B. LIPPINCOTT COMPANY.
1892.
————————
Copyright, 1882, by J. B. LIPPINCOTT & CO.
————————
TO
MRS. JAMES B. RICKETTS,
WHO,
WHETHER SHARING THE LOT OF WOUNDED PRISONER,
OR
GRACING THE HIGHEST CIRCLES OF SOCIETY,
HAS BEEN
THE DEVOTED WIFE TO ONE,
THE
FAITHFUL FRIEND TO MANY A SOLDIER,
THIS
ARMY STORY IS DEDICATED.
PREFACE.
Mr. Ralph Waldo Emerson is responsible for the statement that
“Spartans, stoics, heroes, saints, and gods use a short and positive
speech.” This may account for the fact that there are no conversations
worth reading in this entire story.
The spontaneous wisdom and eloquence that animate the characters of
Bulwer and Disraeli to the habitual and familiar use of language
outrivalling the diction of Richelieu; the colossal attainments of
the natives neighboring Chattanooga, as set forth in St. Elmo, and
discovered (by aid of the unabridged) in their off-hand chats; the wit
and sparkle of that phenomenally delicious couple, Tom and Bessie, who
irradiate not only “One Summer,” but every season in which they may be
encountered,—all will be found wanting herein. My people simply talk,
as people in the line of the army _will_ talk,—most prosaically.
When it comes to portraying life in the staff, as opposed to existence
in the fighting force, needless to say some other pen must be employed
than that of
THE AUTHOR.
November, 1882.
THE COLONEL’S DAUGHTER;
OR,
WINNING HIS SPURS.
————————
CHAPTER I.
“Sergeant-Major!”
“Sir-r-r!” and the rasp and rattle of a hastily-moved chair preceded
but an instant the appearance of a soldierly form in the doorway.
“That Prescott mail’s late again to-day?”
“Yes, sir; been late every time last three trips.”
The sergeant-major clips his words as close as his cropped hair and
uses no superfluities. Having said so much he waits, mutely “standing
attention,” for his superior’s next remark. The latter is dreamily
contemplating a pair of rather shapely feet perched on the desk in
front of him, and tapping the boot-toes thereof with a long ruler.
Finally he queries,—
“Think that man Finnegan’s been drinking again?”
“Looks like it, sir; but can’t say. Horse shows hard riding every night
when he gets in; but you can see him for six miles up the valley, and
he comes at an easy lope all the way from the Point.”
The adjutant slowly lets down his long legs, quits his chair, takes
from its case a signal-service binocular and saunters to the open
doorway leading to the parade. His subordinate remains a moment, in his
invariable attitude, at the door of the inner office, then, finding
himself addressed no further, steps back quickly as he came.
Leaning against the post of the narrow piazza in front, the adjutant
blinked his eyes in unwilling deference to the blazing sunlight and
gazed out towards the north.
Before him, straight away, lay a level barren of gravelly earth,
brown and desolate: no sprig of grass, no sign of shrub or tree; the
parade of Camp Sandy, in the year of our Lord 187-, was as bald as
the head of the commanding officer. Midway between the office and the
glistening white line of picket-fence that spanned the northern limit
of the garrison a lance-like staff shot upward into the burning vault
of heaven, and from its summit hung motionless the heavy folds of blue
and scarlet and white, the symbol of Yankee supremacy in the midst
of surrounding desolation. It hung aloft as though paralyzed with
wonderment at its unlovely companionship,—
“It hung in the heat like some bright dead bird,
And the air was so still you could hear the tramp
Of the pacing sentry all over the camp.”
Bounding this arid surface on right and left were two long lines of
adobe buildings. Those on the eastern side, with their broad piazzas
and mansard-roofs, indicating in greater pretence the homes of the
officers of the command; those on the left, low, one-storied, and
colorless as the dun hue of the parade itself, the quarters of the men.
Beyond the former, a thousand yards away, rose a turreted palisade of
conglomerate shale and yielding sandy earth that shut out wall-like
all view to the east. At its foot rolled the shallow stream from which
the post derived its sole supply of water. It never seemed to rain at
Camp Sandy, though torrents might be descending in the mountains that
shut it in. To the west, beyond the line of barracks, lay, in the same
colorless clods of adobe, the cavalry stables,—the quartermaster’s
“corrals,”—and beyond them tumbled heaps of foot-hill rolling higher
and higher until, in the near distance, they rose a thousand feet
above the plateau and joined the long ridge of mountain-chain that
stretched down, claw-like, from the grand range of the California
Sierra. Northward the eye roamed over a valley hemmed in towards the
setting sun by dark, pine-covered mountains, while on the other side,
vivid, dazzling, scintillating in the blazing rays, lay the barren
yet brilliant cliffs of the Red Rock country. The winding fringe of
cottonwood in the valley depths—a lively green contrasted with the
sombre hue of all nature near it—marked the course of the stream, and
far, far to the north, plumb under the spot where the pole-star glowed
at night, a snow-capped peak glistened and shimmered through the heated
air, the one gleam of blessed coolness vouchsafed in the entire picture.
Still holding his binocular in his listless hand, the adjutant lounged
in the shade of the porch, and gazed drearily over the scene before
him. Save the occasional lizard, darting about the sun-baked parade,
no sign of life or motion greeted the eye. Along “officers’ row”
every blind was tightly closed against the blazing west. One or two
sleeping forms could be detected along the shade-line of the opposite
“quarters”; but even at the guard-house the sentry had been drawn
inside, and was pacing the narrow corridor in front of the barred
windows, through which swarthy, hungry-eyed Apache faces were doubtless
glaring out in miserable hatred of their captors.
It was a cheerless scene, and in face and form, expression and
attitude, there could be detected on the part of the one visibly
wakeful being a thorough appreciation of its dreariness. Tall, “six
feet two in his stockings,” lithe and thin in flank, but with massive
shoulders and powerful limbs, the adjutant’s form would have enraptured
the life guardsmen of England. Clad in the coolest of white duck and
flannel, every line of his frame was patent to the observer, and the
head and face were fitting accompaniment. Eyes of darkest hazel, a
straight, slender, broad-nostriled nose, a mouth firm and clear-cut
under the curling moustache, chin and jaw square, resolute, and
clean-shaven, forehead broad and white, in odd contrast to the bronze
that spread over face and neck, hair that might have been dark and wavy
in boyish days, but now close-cropped to the shapely head, the adjutant
was well termed among his comrades a “splendid-looking fellow.” Yet
at this moment the whole face was marred by its expression of utter
weariness and discontent.
Turning sharply with a disgusted snap of the case, he looked at the
thermometer hanging well back in the shade,—
“One hundred at 5 P.M.! Well! not so bad as yesterday, but hot enough
for Tophet. What _in_ Tophet did we ever take this hole from Mexico for
anyhow?” is the muttered comment that falls from his lips. “An ape or
a Greaser is the only thing on two legs fit to live in this infernal
Arizona, and yet, by gad, here’s old Pelham going to bring his wife and
daughter out to join.”
Something in the absurdity of this last idea provoked a smile upon the
face of Mr. John Truscott, adjutant of Uncle Sam’s —th regiment of
cavalry, and while he did not give way to soliloquy his thoughts ran
somewhat as follows:
“She’s the girl” (she being, of course, Miss Pelham, the daughter
aforementioned) “the youngsters have all been raving about for the
last two years. Just finished school in New York, but spent her last
two summers at West Point, and had no end of adorers in the graduating
class. I half fancy Glenham to be one of her victims. Almighty good
thing for her and the old folks if he _is_, for the Fates have blessed
him with infinite lucre, and those three boys of Pelham’s have drained
him poor as—as, begad, as I am. Wonder what she’s like anyhow? You
never can tell from what these young fledglings say. Good lord! how
long it is since I’ve had a glimpse of a pretty face, or anything
civilized!”
Mechanically, Mr. Truscott turned once more northward, and, adjusting
the glass, took a long survey of the valley and the point where the
road disappeared among the mountains. This time, with better success,
his practised eye noted the faintly visible whiffs of dust, rising at
intervals beyond the cottonwoods, yet four miles away.
A sudden clatter of hoofs came rapidly up the slope in rear of the
office from the south, and a horse and rider plunged into space by his
side.
“Mail in yet, Jack?” shouted a fresh cheery voice, and the sunburnt,
bright-eyed young face of the horseman beamed down upon the adjutant.
“Nary,” is that official’s inelegant but terse reply. “Coming though, I
think,” he adds, as he notes the shade of disappointment creeping over
the features of his interrogator. “Where have you been?” he asks. “You
must find riding hot work such a day as this?”
“Can’t help it,” replies the junior, swinging lightly to the ground.
“Old Catnip says those herds have got to be visited by the officer
of the day at least once before stable-call, and I made it late as I
could. You look bored to death, Jack.”
Now, just why every officer in that garrison should invariably address
Mr. Truscott as “Jack” is one of those mysteries which has puzzled
metaphysicians. Some profound thinker has recorded as the result of his
observations that a man hailed by his fellow-men by his Christian name
may be beloved, but is always “blind to his own interests.” The two
fit into one another after a fashion, for it usually happens that the
man “blind to his own interests” is apt to be the most unselfish and
considerate fellow imaginable, and as such is apt to be popular, and,
in army circles, to have “troops of friends” until, in his blindness,
he stumbles into a scrape, when it is curious to mark how quickly the
“Jack” gives place to the distant surname, and the friends dwindle
to few. Mr. Truscott _was_ popular, but it rose from no pronounced
“blindness to his own interests.” He was generous, even lavish, in his
way, but with all the fact of an acknowledged intellectual superiority
over his comrades, and the record of being a splendid soldier and a
“thorough-bred” gentleman, the best explanation of his popularity,
perhaps, is to be found in the remarks of Captain Tanner on the
subject. “I like Truscott,” said he, “because in the eight years I’ve
known him he has never spoken ill of a man behind his back, and because
he holds a woman’s name as sacred.” The knot of officers to whom this
opinion was delivered contained no dissenter. Yet Mr. Truscott had his
enemies. A certain uncompromising “hit-or-miss” way of doing his duty,
and coming down hard on delinquents, had stirred the rancor of more
than one of his brethren, who, negligent or ignorant themselves, had
no patience with his sternly military system, and, having been rapped
over the official knuckles by the commanding officer, they would gladly
have seen the adjutant deposed from his influential position. Nor was
it among his own sex that Mr. Truscott had acquaintances who were not
all well-wishers. In the utter isolation of that distant station those
ladies of the regiment who had followed their husbands in their exile
(and perchance brought unmarried sisters with them) had, or fancied
they had, little else to talk of than the affairs of the garrison and
of their neighbors. Possibly that very trait which so aroused the
enthusiasm of Captain Tanner, “that he held sacred a woman’s name, and
could not be brought to speak ill of one,” was the very thing which
rendered him unbearable to some three or four of their number. For how
inexpressibly stupid in the eyes of one woman is the man who cannot be
induced, for her entertainment, to criticise another!
Treating them one and all alike with a certain grave courtesy and
gentle deference, he trod metaphorically upon the sweeping trains of
both Mrs. Raymond and Mrs. Turner, and in the observance of a strict
neutrality had at one time or other given offence to these rival belles
of the garrison. “Why,” said Mrs. Raymond, “I merely hinted to him at
the hop last week that Mrs. Curtis’s last dress from San Francisco must
have been a frightful tax on her husband’s pay, and you know it was,
and he drew himself into his shell in that awfully superior way of his
and fairly snubbed me.” Now, Mr. Truscott was incapable of “snubbing”
any woman. Grant-like, he fell back upon an inflexible silence when
pressed for his opinion on matters of which he chose not to speak.
But this passive rebuke was to women of Mrs. Raymond’s calibre as
exasperating as an active “snub,” and in her feline way she resented it.
Neither she nor her sisters in garrison cared to declare open war
against the best-looking man and one of the best partners in the
command. Besides, Mr. Truscott had a way of showing very delicate
attentions to the ladies of the regiment, though distributing all
such with a strict impartiality; for whether from hunting, a trip to
Prescott, or the rare luxury of a “leave” in San Francisco, he seldom
returned without an acceptable remembrance for each and every one.
Then, too, he had all the latest books and magazines. “He kept up
his reading,” as the officers said, and his taste was indisputable.
Younger officers went to him in their troubles and perplexities, sure
of sympathy, and surer still of inviolable confidence; older officers,
sorely against their will at times, consulted his opinions on matters
wherein they should have been, but were not, thoroughly informed.
But for his part, it was a circumstance of frequent remark that he
never once was known to seek advice or sympathy, and never alluded to
affairs of his own. Many and various were the theories advanced as
to why Mr. Truscott, at the age of thirty, remained unmarried. Most
of his brother-officers had taken unto themselves wives, and were as
happy as is possible under such circumstances, but to all questions,
however deftly put, bearing upon the matter, the adjutant replied
with imperturbable gravity that he thought too much of the sex in the
abstract to offer it anything so unworthy its acceptance.
There were matrons in the regiment who looked upon him as a most
eligible catch for a younger sister, and who had imported such sisters
in days when the —th was stationed in climes more accessible for the
avowed purpose of capturing the tall subaltern, but Jack appeared as
serenely unconscious of their wiles as he did of the oft-thrown signal
for flirtation from some of the giddy matrons themselves. Tradition
had it that Mr. Truscott’s obduracy was due to a love-affair of long
standing; that since the days of his graduation he had adored and been
adored by a damsel far away in Massachusetts, and for a time it was
known that delicate missives with a womanly superscription reached
him from that quarter; but, some three years before, he had gone East
on a long leave of absence, and when the regiment received orders for
Arizona had suddenly reappeared in their midst, older, graver, and
at times very absent-minded, but never since had he sought further
opportunity of going to “the States,” and his secret, whatever it
might be, was buried in his own bosom. Wherever there are women there
are apt to be audacious flirts, and many a time had some practised
coquette baited her hook in the vain hope of getting a rise from the
adjutant of the —th. It would be a reflection on his sagacity to say
that he did not see the fly, but he possessed the faculty of appearing
so utterly obtuse as not to see it, and, whether real or assumed, his
indifference was unmistakable. Nellie Blossom, the brightest, merriest,
and withal the fairest girl known to military circles in the West,—the
niece of one of the prominent officers of the department,—had actually
been accused by the critical matrons of the garrisons of Prescott and
Camp Sandy of having thrown herself at Jack Truscott’s head. But she
had returned to San Francisco wiser if not sadder, and was last heard
of flirting desperately with the artillerymen at Alcatraz and the
Presidio, and when inquisitive Circes of Camp Sandy sought to probe
Jack’s inner consciousness, they received for all answer an assurance
that if he could admire any one as much as he did the ladies of the
—th, that lady was Miss Blossom.
One day “Old Catnip,” as he was popularly termed, Colonel Pelham, as
he was known officially, electrified the garrison of Camp Sandy by
the information that Mrs. Pelham and his daughter Grace were coming
out to join. Now, it is a peculiarity of the ladies of the army that
the simple announcement of a fact is as stimulative of conjecture and
reflection as was the fall of Isaac Newton’s apple. There wasn’t a
woman in all Camp Sandy who did not immediately set to work to fathom
the motives of Mrs. Pelham in thus suddenly starting for such an
utterly out-of-the-way place as Arizona; and there was not a woman in
all Camp Sandy who by noon on the following day had not decided that
she was coming to capture Lieutenant Arthur Glenham and his handsome
fortune. Grace was a girl of sixteen at school when the regiment was
hurried to the Pacific coast, and Mrs. Pelham had decided to remain in
New York until her daughter’s education was completed. Each summer she
had gone with her to West Point, where Grace had been an acknowledged
belle among the cadets, and where frank, whole-souled young Glenham had
most unequivocally shown himself an adorer. It was said that he had
gone so far as to offer himself to Grace, saying humbly that “he wasn’t
much to look at, but at least he could offer the woman he loved a home
and an ample fortune.” Grace never told it to a soul, nor had she
encouraged the boy, but a sharp-sighted mamma had noted every symptom,
and speedily won from Glenham himself a statement of his prospects
financial, and had bidden him hope as regarded his prospects otherwise.
Meantime, jolly old Pelham had established his headquarters at Sandy,
and his red face and bald head could be seen for an hour each morning
at the office, after which they were invisible until sundown, when
he reappeared on the veranda of his quarters ready to chat with any
one who came along, and was completely happy if three or four of his
officers would consent to spend the evening and play whist with him.
Glenham’s classmates had exchanged some sly witticisms when the order
assigning him to Pelham’s regiment was received, and it was said at
Sandy that the colonel eyed the young gentleman very sharply when he
reported for duty. “Mr. Truscott,” said he, “I think that young fellow
has some good points about him. Suppose you take him in hand and
draw him out.” So it happened that Glenham had been welcomed to the
adjutant’s quarters, and, as there were by no means houses enough to
give each subaltern a “set” to himself, he had there remained to this
day.
It was Arthur Glenham himself who reined up at the adjutant’s office,
and it was his cheery voice that accosted Truscott in eager inquiry for
the mail.
The two officers were a striking contrast. Glenham was short in
stature, broad of shoulder, stout of limb, with a face almost as broad
in proportion as his body, with merry laughing blue eyes, a large
mouth, expanded in the perpetual grin which his perfect teeth rendered
excusable, a face and form, in fact, indicative of the utmost good
nature, if not of the utmost intellect. And Glenham was more than
good-natured. He possessed a trait rare as is an unconscious manner
in those men to whose grandsires wealth was unknown. His bounty was
lavish, yet no comrade was allowed to feel that he was the victim of a
special favor. As a consequence, young Arthur was frequently imposed
upon by the rank and file of the regiment, who were incessantly coming
to know “Would the loot’nint lind me the loan of tin dollars till pay
day?” and then, in emulation of Captain Costigan of convivial memory,
going off to disburse the amount at the sutler’s store.
For a long time Truscott noted the frequent appearance of the worst
class of men in the command at the back door of his quarters; they
invariably inquired for Lieutenant Glenham, and always wanted to see
him alone. Truscott said nothing, but had no difficulty in divining
the object of these visits. One day, however, the colonel was more
conflagratory in temper than was customary; “I’m willing to put up
with the pay-day spree,” was the warrior’s remark, after some indirect
profanity, “but here’s the guard-house cram-full of the old topers of
the garrison this morning, and the sutler swears he hasn’t trusted them
a cent’s worth. Now where in blazes did they get their money?”
Finding himself addressed, the adjutant replied that he “thought he
could find out, and, furthermore, could put a stop to it in future.”
Pelham stared hard at his subordinate for a moment, as though he half
detected the fact of his entire knowledge of the source of supply. He
longed to press the matter and extract further information, but in the
calm gravity of Mr. Truscott’s manner he was vividly reminded of the
experience of a former colonel of the regiment, and having been in the
habit of declaring that it served the colonel right, he turned sharply
on his heel and walked to his private desk. A moment more and his voice
was heard, placid and low, “Very well, Truscott; you attend to it.”
The story of this previous experience was an old one in the regiment,
indeed, had been told all over the Plains. Its former colonel was
blessed with a wife, daughters, and as many unmarried feminine
relations as Sir Joseph Porter, K.C.B., and ordinarily half a dozen of
them were his guests in garrison. His adjutant, a consumptive relic
of the war, had won his undying gratitude by taking a sister-in-law
off his hands, but, as he was compelled to bury that adjutant with
military honors some six months afterwards, and subsequently to provide
for both the fatherless and the widow, the benefit was but temporary.
Then he summoned Truscott to headquarters, and appointed him adjutant
_vice_ the defunct brother-in-law. Truscott speedily showed consummate
ability in the performance of his duties, but a correspondent lack of
inclination for the delicate functions of his predecessor. Resisting
all feminine wiles, he declined to spend his unoccupied hours in
dancing attendance upon the sisters, cousins, and daughters, though
always showing them scrupulous attention at the garrison hops; but
there was one thing in which he utterly differed from the deceased, and
in which he succeeded in winning the ill will of every woman in the
colonel’s household, and, of course, before long that of the colonel
himself. Nothing would induce him to talk to them of the affairs of any
officer or lady in or out of the regiment, and no longer could they
derive information from the man whose position enabled him to be “well
posted.”
This was outrageous. “The idea that the adjutant of my husband’s
regiment is going to ignore _my_ position is something I’ll not
tolerate,” was the repeated remark of “_Madame la Colonelle_” to her
cronies in the garrison. “You’ll see that he cannot hold it a week.”
Naturally, in _less_ than a week, Mr. Truscott, from a dozen different
sources, received what “his friends” chose to denominate “warnings,”
but he went on about his duties as usual, for the colonel had many
soldierly qualities that he firmly respected. It pained him greatly
to note the daily increasing coldness and injustice of the commanding
officer, but he said nothing.
One morning the storm broke. Something had gone wrong at the colonel’s.
They were then stationed in Kansas, near a large railway town, and
it was a source of much gossip that several of the young officers
were frequent visitors during the midnight hours at places of varied
entertainment in the vicinity, but none had been absent from any
roll-call or duty. There are always one or two officers to tell the
colonel of such affairs, and always ten or a dozen women to tell the
colonel’s wife, which generally amounts to the same thing.
On this particular morning the colonel’s face was wrathful, and he
opened fire on his adjutant at once with,—
“Mr. Truscott, what officers were absent from reveille this morning?”
Truscott promptly rose, stood like a statue before his colonel, and
calmly replied, “None, sir.”
“Then you and they must have made almighty good time back from town.
I am told you were playing poker at the Alhambra till after four this
morning.”
“So far as I am concerned your informant is mistaken. I was not out of
the garrison, sir.”
There were several officers sitting or standing about the room. Some
slipped quietly out, unwilling to listen to a conversation already so
painful. Others remained, with attentive ears.
“At all events you know who _were_ there, and I expect you, as my
staff-officer, to inform me.”
“It so happens, colonel, that I do not know. I have not even heard.”
“Well, I know that you _do_ know who were playing cards in Captain
Lapham’s quarters two nights ago, for you were seen coming from there
at ten o’clock, and this was probably the same party.”
“I was Captain Lapham’s guest on that occasion, as were the others,
colonel; and now I must say emphatically, but with all respect, that I
never heard of such a thing as its being the duty of the adjutant to
keep the commanding officer informed of the movements of the officers
off duty, but as such seems to be your view, I beg to be relieved at
once.”
“You are, sir, you are; and, had I listened to advice, you would have
been long ago,” fairly roared the colonel. “Leave the office at once!”
And, with the respect of every man in the regiment, Jack Truscott
took himself back to his troop. Some time afterwards, over a year,
promotions and retirements brought Colonel Pelham to the command of
the —th, and about the first thing he did was to send for Truscott and
reinstate him in the adjutancy.
From that day to this the colonel never regretted it, and it was with
complete assurance that he left the matter of stopping the irregular
supplies of the garrison to his staff-officer. Glenham’s open-handed
liberality met with a sudden check, nobody knew why or how, for what
passed between Truscott and himself was never mentioned, but a report
rapidly gained credence in Camp Sandy that Mr. Glenham had lost a great
deal of money in unfortunate investments. Soft-voiced sirens inquired
of Mr. Truscott whether Glenham had said anything to him about his
losses, and on Mr. Truscott’s replying gravely that he had not, and
merely bowing with equal gravity to the supplementary remark, “You
know, as his room-mate and most intimate friend, I thought he probably
would have told you. Of course, it’s a matter I would never think of
mentioning,” the soft-voiced siren had retired in defeat, and conveyed
her verdict to some chosen intimate that Mr. Glenham must have been
speculating heavily, she “had been talking with Mr. Truscott, but
don’t for the world say I said so,” etc. Consequently, when Colonel
Riggs, the bluff old inspector-general of the department, dropped in
at Sandy on his way from a hunt, and with his usual happy facility of
hitting the nail on the head accosted Glenham with, “Hello, youngster!
I hear you’ve been speculating and lost most of your money,” the boy
was indignant, and in denying the statement _in toto_ demanded the
name of Colonel Riggs’s informant, so that in the course of the week
there was an unpleasantness at Sandy, and Mrs. Turner lost one of her
admirers. Between Truscott and Glenham there existed a firm friendship
which nothing seemed to shake. The former was neither demonstrative nor
outwardly warm in his manner to the younger man, but it was evident
that he influenced him in everything,—his duties, his tastes, the
employment of his time, and, though imperceptibly, in the selection
of his friends and associates. On the other hand, Glenham, in his
impetuous and enthusiastic way, was wont to talk of Truscott and his
admiration for him by the hour. So when it was noised abroad that
Miss Grace Pelham was soon to arrive, and all the story of Glenham’s
devotion to her was renewed, it was with much amazement and more
incredulity that the ladies of the garrison heard Mr. Truscott’s answer
of “Nothing,” in response to their eager queries as to what Glenham had
ever told him about her.