“Whar are you from, and what’s your business?”

The captain of one of the companies was among our visitors, drawn by the same curiosity that had attracted his men.  Unless their faces belied them, not a few in the crowd might with great advantage have changed places with their commander.

“Well, men,” said he, lazily rising from the ground where he had been lounging, “it’s getting late, I reckon we had better be moving.”

“I shan’t start yet anyhow,” said one fellow, who was lying half asleep with his head resting on his arm.

“Don’t be in a hurry, captain,” added the lieutenant.

“Well, have it your own way, we’ll wait a while longer,” replied the obsequious commander.

At length however our visitors went straggling away as they had come, and we, to our great relief, were left alone again.

No one can deny the intrepid bravery of these men, their intelligence and the bold frankness of their character, free from all that is mean and sordid.  Yet for the moment the extreme roughness of their manners half inclines one to forget their heroic qualities.  Most of them seem without the least perception of delicacy or propriety, though among them individuals may be found in whose manners there is a plain courtesy, while their features bespeak a gallant spirit equal to any enterprise.

No one was more relieved than Delorier by the departure of the volunteers; for dinner was getting colder every moment.  He spread a well-whitened buffalo hide upon the grass, placed in the middle the juicy hump of a fat cow, ranged around it the tin plates and cups, and then acquainted us that all was ready.  Tete Rouge, with his usual alacrity on such occasions, was the first to take his seat.  In his former capacity of steamboat clerk, he had learned to prefix the honorary Mister to everybody’s name, whether of high or low degree; so Jim Gurney was Mr. Gurney, Henry was Mr. Henry, and even Delorier, for the first time in his life, heard himself addressed as Mr. Delorier.  This did not prevent his conceiving a violent enmity against Tete Rouge, who, in his futile though praiseworthy attempts to make himself useful used always to intermeddle with cooking the dinners.  Delorier’s disposition knew no medium between smiles and sunshine and a downright tornado of wrath; he said nothing to Tete Rouge, but his wrongs rankled in his breast.  Tete Rouge had taken his place at dinner; it was his happiest moment; he sat enveloped in the old buffalo coat, sleeves turned up in preparation for the work, and his short legs crossed on the grass before him; he had a cup of coffee by his side and his knife ready in his hand and while he looked upon the fat hump ribs, his eyes dilated with anticipation.  Delorier sat just opposite to him, and the rest of us by this time had taken our seats.

“How is this, Delorier?  You haven’t given us bread enough.”