“Afraid of cards, but not afraid of you,” replied Tom, as he planted a heavy blow between the eyes of his companion.

Ben Lethbridge returned the blow, and it cost him another, and there was a prospect of quite a lively skirmish in the entry; but Fred Pemberton interposed his good offices, and effected a compromise, which, like most of the political compromises, was only the postponement of the conflict.

“I told you not to call me ‘baby,’ again,” said Tom, as they passed out of the building.  “I will convince you before I am done that I’m not a baby.”

Ben found it convenient to offer no reply to this plain statement of facts, and the three soldiers made their way back to the camp, and, having obtained their pails and filled them with water at the hydrants, they passed the guard without a question.

CHAPTER XII.

On to Richmond.

It so happened that Ben Lethbridge, probably satisfied that it was not the fist of a baby which had partially blackened both of his eyes, and produced a heavy pain under his left ear, did not demand the satisfaction which was needed to heal his wounded honor.  The matter was duly discussed in the tent of Tom’s mess; but our soldier boy, while he professed to be entirely satisfied, was willing to meet Ben at such time and place as he desired, and finish up the affair.

The other party was magnanimous, and declared that he too was satisfied; and old Hapgood thought they had better proceed no further with the affair, for both of them might be arrested for disorderly conduct.

“I am satisfied, Ben; but if you ever call me a baby or a calf again, it will all have to be settled over again,” said Tom, as he laid aside his musket, which he had been cleaning during the conversation.

“I don’t want to quarrel with you, Tom,” replied Ben, “but I wish you would be a little more like the rest of the fellows.”

“What do you mean by that?  I am like the rest of the fellows.”

“You wouldn’t play cards.”

“Yes, I will play cards, but I won’t gamble; and there isn’t many fellows in the company that will.”

“That’s so,” added Hapgood.  “I know all about that business.  When I went to Mexico, I lost my money as fast as I got it, playing cards.  Don’t gamble, boys.”

“I won’t, for one,” said Tom, with emphasis.

“Are you going to set up for a soldier-saint, too?” sneered Ben, turning to the old man.

“I’m no saint, but I’ve larned better than to gamble.”

“I think you’d better stop drinking too,” added Ben.

“Come, Ben, you are meaner than dirt,” said Tom, indignantly.

Old Hapgood was a confirmed toper.  The people in Pinchbrook said he was a good man, but, they used to add, with a shrug of the shoulders, “pity he drinks.”  It was a sad pity, but he seemed to have no power over his appetite.  The allusion of Ben to his besetting sin was cruel and mortifying, for the old man had certainly tried to reform, and since the regiment left Boston, he had not tasted the intoxicating cup.  He had declared before the mess that he had stopped drinking; so his resolution was known to all his companions, though none of them had much confidence in his ability to carry it out.