"
"Was he a rebel?" asked the unfortunate Sandy.
The doctor swelled with indignation. "He was a Confederate, sir! I
never knew a rebel."
"It was the Confederates that wore the gray?" asked Sandy, trying to
cover his blunder.
"They did," said the doctor. "I put it on at nineteen, and I'll be
buried in it. Yes, sir; and my hat. Wouldn't wear blue for a farm.
Hate the sight of it so, that I might shoot myself by mistake. Ever
look over these maps? This was the battle of--"
A door opened and a light head was thrust out.
"Now, d-dad, you hush this minute! You've told him that over and over.
Sandy's my company. Come in here, Sandy."
A few moments later there was a moving of chairs, and Annette's voice
was counting, "One, two, three; one, two, three," while Sandy went
through violent contortions in his efforts to waltz. He had his
tongue firmly between his teeth and his eyes fixed on vacancy as he
revolved in furniture--destroying circles about the small parlor.
"That isn't right," cried Annette. "You've lost the time. You d-dance
with the chair, Sandy, and I'll p-play the p-piano."
"No, you don't!" he cried. "I'll dance with you and put the chair at
the piano, but I'll dance with no chair."
Annette sank, laughing and exhausted, upon the sofa and looked up at
him hopelessly.
Pages:
68
69
70
71
72
73
74
75
76
77
78
79
80
81
82
83
84
85
86
87
88
89
90
91
92