"Oakland, California," said she.
"And is this your usual mode of locomotion?" said he. "Riding on a
gun?" said he. "Like the Goddess of War," said he. "Perching on
the belcherous cannon's back," said he.
The old lady, now as bold as brass, allowed that it was.
"Scandalous!" roared the captain. "Scandalous!"
The old lady always had a kind of nattified air, and even on a
gun-carriage she sported that look of dropping in on the
neighbours for a visit. She ran up her little parasol, settled her
feet, give a tilt to her specs, and looked the captain in the eye.
"Yes," she said, "I do belong to this column, and I guess it would
be a smaller column by a dozen, if it hadn't been for me in your
field-hospital. Or twenty," said she. "Or maybe more," said she.
This kind of staggered the captain. It was plain he didn't know
just what to do. We were hundreds of miles from anywheres, and
there were Aguinaldoes all around us. He was as good as married to
that old lady, for any means he had of getting rid of her. He
began to look quite old himself, as he stared and stared at the
mascot of Battery B, the cannon lumping along, and the old lady
bouncing up and down, as the wheels sank to the axles in the rutty
road.
"When we strike the railroad, home you go," said he.
"We'll see about that," said the old lady.
"It's disgraceful," said he. "Pigging with a whole battery," said
he. "Oh, the shame of it!" said he.
"Shoulder-straps don't always make a gentleman," said she.
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