"Why did I give my soul away- Give it so gaily, give it to pay For a sigh and a kiss on a summer's day?
"Perhaps the passing years may show; My heart and I, we do not know."
She broke off short, swung on the revolving chair, and called: "Mr.
Berkley, are you going to see me home?"
"Last jack, Miss Carew," said Berkley, "I'm opening it for the limit. Give me one round of fixed ammunition, Arthur."
"There's no use drawing," observed another man, laying down his hand, "Berkley cleans us up as usual."
He was right; everything went to Berkley, as usual, who laughed and turned a dissipated face to Casson.
"Cold decks?" he suggested politely. "Your revenge at your convenience, Jack."
Casson declined. Cortlandt, in his brilliant zouave uniform, stood up and stretched his arms until the scarlet chevrons on the blue sleeves wrinkled into jagged lightning.
"It's been very kind of you all to come to my last 'good-bye party,'" he yawned, looking sleepily around him through the smoke at his belongings.
For a week he had been giving a "good-bye party" every evening in his handsome house on Twenty-third Street. The four men and the three young girls in the other room were the residue of this party, which was to be the last.
Arthur Wye, wearing the brand-new uniform, red stripes and facings, of flying artillery, rose also; John Casson buttoned his cavalry jacket, grumbling, and stood heavily erect, a colossus in blue and yellow.
"You have the devil's luck, Berkley," he said without bitterness.
"I need it."
"So you do, poor old boy. But-God! you play like a professional."
Wye yawned, thrust his strong, thin hands into his trousers pockets, and looked stupidly at the ceiling.
"I wish to heaven they'd start our battery," he said vacantly.
"I'm that sick of Hamilton!"
Casson grumbled again, settling his debts with Berkley.
"Everybody has the devil's own luck except the poor God-forsaken cavalry. Billy Cortlandt goes tomorrow, your battery is under orders, but nobody cares what happens to the cavalry. And they're the eyes and ears of an army--"
"They're the heels and tail of it," observed Berkley, "and the artillery is the rump."
"Shut up, you sneering civilian!"
"I'm shutting up-shop-unless anybody cares to try one last cold hand-" He caught the eye of the girl at the piano and smiled pallidly. "'Quid non mortalia pectora cogis, auri sacra fames!' Also I have them all scared to death, Miss Carew-the volunteer army of our country is taking water."
"It doesn't taste like water," said the pretty singer on the sofa, stretching out her bubbling glass, "try it yourself, Mr. Berkley."
They went toward the music room; Cortlandt seated himself on top of the piano. He looked rather odd there in his zouave jacket, red trousers, white-gaitered legs hanging.
"Oh the Zou-zou-zou!
Oh the Zou-zou-zou!
Oh the boys of the bully Zouaves!"
he hummed, swinging his legs vigorously. "Ladies and gentlemen, it's all over but the shooting. Arthur, I saw your battery horses; they belong in a glue factory. How arc you going to save your guns when the rebs come after you?"
"God knows, especially if the Zouaves support us," replied Wye, yawning again. Then, rising:
"I've got to get back to that cursed fort. I'll escort anybody who'll let me."
"One more glass, then," said Cortlandt. "Berkley, fill the parting cup! Ladies of the Canterbury, fair sharers of our hospitality who have left the triumphs of the drama to cheer the unfortunate soldier on his war-ward way, I raise my glass and drink to each Terpsichorean toe which, erstwhile, was pointed skyward amid the thunder of metropolitan plaudits, and which now demurely taps my flattered carpet. Gentlemen-soldiers and civilians-I give you three toasts! Miss Carew, Miss Lynden, Miss Trent! Long may they dance! Hurrah!"
"Get on the table," said Casson amid the cheering, and climbed up, spurs jingling, glass on high.
"Will it hold us all?" inquired Letty Lynden, giving her hands to Berkley, who shrugged and swung her up beside him. "Hurrah for the Zouaves!" she cried; "Hurrah for Billy Cortlandt!-Oh, somebody spilled champagne all over me!"
"Hurrah for the artillery!" shouted Arthur Wye, vigorously cheering himself and waving his glass, to the terror of Ione Carew, who attempted to dodge the sparkling rain in vain.
"Arthur, you look like a troop of trained mice," observed Berkley gravely. "Has anybody a toy cannon and a little flag?"
Wye descended with a hop, sprang astride a chair, and clattered around the room, imitating his drill-master.
"Attention! By the right of batteries, break into sections, trot. Mar-r-rch! Attention-n-n! By section from the right of batteries-front into column. Mar-r-rch!"
"By section from the right, front into column, march!" repeated Cortlandt, jumping down from the table and seizing another chair. "Everybody mount a chair!" he shouted. "This is the last artillery drill of the season. Line up there, Letty! It won't hurt your gown. Berkley'll get you another, anyway! Now, ladies and gentlemen, sit firmly in your saddles. Caissons to the rear-march! Caissons, left about-pieces forward-march!"
Wye's chair buckled and he came down with a splintering crash; Casson galloped madly about, pretending his chair had become unmanageable. It, also, ultimately collapsed, landed him flat on his back, whence he surveyed the exercises of the haute ecole in which three flushed and laughing young girls followed the dashing lead of Cortlandt, while Berkley played a cavalry canter on the piano with one hand and waved his cigar in the other.
Later, breathless, they touched glasses to the departing volunteers, to each other, to the ladies ("God bless them! Hear! He-ah!"), to the war, to every regiment going, to each separate battery horse and mule in Arthur's section. And then began on the guns,
"I prophesy a quick reunion!" said Berkley. "Here's to it! Full glasses!
"Speech! Speech-you nimble-witted, limber-legged prophet!" roared John Casson, throwing a pack of cards at Berkley. "Read the cards for us!"
Berkley very gracefully caught a handful, and sorting them, began impromptu:
"Diamonds for you, Little Miss Carew, Strung in a row, Tied in a bow- What would you do If they came true?
"What can it be?
Hearts! for Miss Letty- Sweethearts and beaux, Monarchs in rows, Knaves on their knees- Choose among these!
"Clubs now, I see!
Ace! for Miss Betty- Clubman and swell, Soldier as well.
Yes, he's all three; Who can he be?
"Ione, be kind To monarch and knave, But make up your mind To make 'em behave.
And when a man finds you The nicest he's met, he Is likely to marry you, Letty and Betty!"
Tremendous cheering greeted these sentiments; three more cheers were proposed and given for the Canterbury.
"Home of the 'ster arts, m-music an' 'r' drama-r-r-" observed Casson hazily-"I'm going home."
Nobody seemed to hear him.
"Home-ser-weet home," he repeated sentimentally-"home among the horses-where some Roman-nosed, camel-backed, slant-eared nag is probably waitin' to kick daylight out'r me! Ladies, farewell!" he added, tripping up on his spurs and waving his hand vaguely. "Cav'lry's eyes 'n' ears 'f army! 'Tain't the hind legs' No-no! I'm head 'n' ears-army! 'n' I wan' t' go home."
For a while he remained slanting against the piano, thoughtfully attempting to pry out the strings; then Wye returned from putting Miss Carew and Miss Trent into a carriage.
"You come to the fort with me," he said. "That'll sober you. I sleep near the magazine."
Berkley's face looked dreadfully battered and white, but he was master of himself, careful of his equilibrium, and very polite to everybody.
"You're-hic!-killin' yourself," said Cortlandt, balancing himself carefully in the doorway.