“Yes; what is it, sergeant?  It looks to be a beauty of a morning way up yonder.”

There was a hearty, cheery ring to his clear voice which left the pain-racked old soldier envious.

“My God!” he growled savagely. “’T is likely to be the last any of us will ever see.  Was n’t it you I heard whistling just now?  One might imagine this was to be a wedding, rather than a funeral.”

“And why not, Wyman?  Did n’t you know they employed music at both functions nowadays?  Besides, it is not every man who is permitted to assist at his own obsequies—­the very uniqueness of such a situation rather appeals to my sense of humor.  Pretty tune, that one I was whistling, don’t you think?  Picked it up on ‘The Pike’ in Cincinnati fifteen years ago.  Sorry I don’t recall the words, or I’d sing them for you.”

The sergeant, his teeth clinched tightly to repress the pain racking him, stifled his resentment with an evident effort.  “You may be less light-hearted when you learn that the last of our ammunition is already in the guns,” he remarked, stiffly.

“I suspected as much.”  And the speaker lifted himself on one elbow to peer down the line of recumbent figures.  “To be perfectly frank with you, sergeant, the stuff has held out considerably longer than I believed it would, judging from the way those ‘dough boys’ of yours kept popping at every shadow in front of them.  It ’s a marvel to me, the mutton-heads they take into the army.  Oh, now, you need n’t scowl at me like that, Wyman; I ’ve worn the blue, and seen some service where a fellow needed to be a man to sport the uniform.  Besides, I ’m not indifferent, old chap, and just so long as there remained any work worth attending to in this skirmishing affair, I did it, did n’t I?  But I tell you, man, there is mighty little good trying to buck against Fate, and when Luck once finally lets go of a victim, he’s bound to drop straight to the bottom before he stops.  That’s the sum and substance of all my philosophy, old fellow, consequently I never kick simply because things happen to go wrong.  What’s the use?  They ’ll go wrong just the same.  Then again, my life has never been so sweet as to cause any excessive grief over the prospect of losing it.  Possibly I might prefer to pass out from this world in some other manner, but that’s merely a matter of individual taste, and just now there does n’t seem to be very much choice left me.  Consequently, upheld by my acquired philosophy, and encouraged by the rectitude of my past conduct, I ’m merely holding back one shot for myself, as a sort of grand finale to this fandango, and another for that little girl out yonder.”

These words were uttered slowly, the least touch of a lazy drawl apparent in the low voice, yet there was an earnest simplicity pervading the speech which somehow gave it impressiveness.  The man meant exactly what he said, beyond the possibility of a doubt.  The old soldier, accustomed to every form of border eccentricity, gazed at him with disapproval.