"Private Simmons, E Comp'ny, on the Cavalry p'rade-ground, Sir,
with thirty rounds," said a Sergeant breathlessly to the Colonel.
"Shootin' right and lef', Sir. Shot Private Losson What's to be
done, Sir?"
Colonel John Anthony Deever, C.B., sallied out, only to be saluted
by s spurt of dust at his feet.
"Pull up!" said the Second in Command; "I don't want my step in
that way, Colonel. He's as dangerous as a mad dog."
"Shoot him like one, then," said the Colonel, bitterly, "if he won't
take his chance, My regiment, too! If it had been the Towheads I
could have under stood."
Private Simmons had occupied a strong position near a well on the
edge of the parade-ground, and was defying the regiment to come
on. The regiment was not anxious to comply, for there is small
honor in being shot by a fellow-private. Only Corporal Slane, rifle
in band, threw himself down on the ground, and wormed his way
toward the well.
"Don't shoot," said he to the men round him; "like as not you'll hit
me. I'll catch the beggar, livin'."
Simmons ceased shouting for a while, and the noise of trap-wheels
could be heard across the plain. Major Oldyne Commanding the
Horse Battery, was coming back from a dinner in the Civil Lines;
was driving after his usual custom--that is to say, as fast as the
horse could go.
"A orf'cer! A blooming spangled orf'cer," shrieked Simmons; "I'll
make a scarecrow of that orf'cer!" The trap stopped.
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