"Why, isn't that Basil?" she asked in an amazed tone--amazed because
Basil did not speak to her, but grinned silently.
"Why, it is Basil; why--why," and she turned helplessly from private to
officer and back again. "Can't you speak to me, Basil?"
Basil grinned again sheepishly.
"Yes," he said, answering her, but looking straight at his superior, "I
can if the Lieutenant there will let me." Phyllis was indignant.
"Let you!" she said, witheringly; and she turned on the hapless tyrant
at her side.
"Now, don't you go putting on airs, just because you happen to have been
in the Legion a little longer than some people. Of course, I'm going
to speak to my friends. I don't care where they are or what they happen
to be at the time, or who happens to think himself over them."
And she walked up to the helpless sentinel with her hand outstretched,
while the equally helpless Lieutenant got very red indeed, and Basil
shifted his gun to a very unmilitary position and held out his hand.
"Let me see your gun, Basil," she added, and the boy obediently handed
it over to her, while the little Lieutenant turned redder still.
"You go to the guard-house for that, Crittenden," he said, quietly.
"Don't you know you oughtn't to give up your gun to anybody except your
commanding officer?"
"Does he, indeed?" said the girl, just as quietly. "Well, I'll see the
Colonel." And Basil saluted soberly, knowing there was no guard-house
for him that night.
"Anyhow," she added, "I'm the commanding officer here." And then the
gallant lieutenant saluted too.
"You are, indeed," he said; and Phyllis turned to give Basil a parting
smile.
Crittenden followed them to the Colonel's tent, which had a raised floor
and the good cheer of cigar-boxes, and of something under his cot that
looked like a champagne-basket; and he smiled to think of Chaffee's
Spartan-like outfit at Chickamauga. Every now and then a soldier would
come up with a complaint, and the Colonel would attend to him
personally.
It was plain that the old ex-Confederate was the father of the regiment,
and was beloved as such; and Crittenden was again struck with the
contrast it all was to what he had just seen, knowing well, however,
that the chief difference was in the spirit in which regular and
volunteer approached the matter in hand. With one, it was a business
pure and simple, to which he was trained. With the other, it was a lark
at first, but business it soon would be, and a dashing business at that.
There was the same crowd before the tent--Judith, who greeted him with
gracious frankness, but with a humorous light in her eye that set him
again to wondering; and Phyllis and Phyllis's mother, Mrs. Stanton, who
no sooner saw Crittenden than she furtively looked at Judith with a
solicitude that was maternal and significant.