“He wears a mustache guard.  I offered him a cigar.  He saluted:  ’Thank you,’ he said.  ‘Nevare I schmoke.’”

“They are the pets of the expedition,” Grafton went on, “they and that war-like group of correspondents over there.  They’ll go down on the flag-ship, while we nobodies will herd together on one boat.  But we’ll all be on the same footing when we get there.”

Just then a big man, who was sitting on the next divan twisting his mustache and talking chiefly with his hands, rolled up and called Grafton.

“Huh!” he said.

“Huh!” mimicked Grafton.

“You don’t know much about the army.”

“Six weeks ago I couldn’t tell a doughboy officer from a cavalryman by the stripe down his legs.”

The big man smiled with infinite pity and tolerance.

“Therefore,” said Grafton, “I shall not pass judgment, deliver expert military opinions, and decide how the campaign ought to be conducted—­well, maybe for some days yet.”

“You’ve got to.  You must have a policy—­a Policy.  I’ll give you one.”

And he began—­favoring monosyllables, dashes, exclamation points, pauses for pantomime, Indian sign language, and heys, huhs, and humphs that were intended to fill out sentences and round up elaborate argument.

“There is a lot any damn fool can say, of course, hey?  But you mustn’t say it, huh?  Give ’em hell afterward.” (Pantomime.) “That’s right, ain’t it?  Understand?  Regular army all right.” (Sign language.) “These damn fools outside—­volunteers, politicians, hey?  Had best army in the world at the close of the old war, see?  Best equipped, you understand, huh?  Congress” (violent Indian sign language) “wanted to squash it—­to squash it—­that’s right, you understand, huh?  Cut it down—­cut it down, see?  Illustrate:  Wanted 18,000 mules for this push, got 2,000, see?  Same principle all through; see?  That’s right!  No good to say anything now—­people think you complain of the regular army, huh?  Mustn’t say anything now—­give ’em hell afterward—­understand?” (More sign language.) “Hell afterward.  All right now, got your policy, go ahead.”

Grafton nodded basely, and without a smile: 

“Thanks, old man—­thanks.  It’s very lucid.”

A little later Crittenden saw the stout civilian, Major Billings, fairly puffing with pride, excitement, and a fine uniform of khaki, whom he had met at Chickamauga; and Willings, the surgeon; and Chaffee, now a brigadier; and Lawton, soon to command a division; and, finally, little Jerry Carter, quiet, unassuming, dreamy, slight, old, but active, and tough as hickory.  The little general greeted Crittenden like a son.

“I was sorry not to see you again at Chickamauga, but I started here next day.  I have just written you that there was a place on my staff for you or your brother—­or for any son of your father and my friend.  I’ll write to Washington for you to-night, and you can report for duty whenever you please.”