The little boys who had gone after the gun came pattering
along hurriedly, the weapon borne in the midst of
them. Each was anxious to share in the honour.
The one who had been delegated to bring it was bullying
and directing his comrades.
Peter said, “S-s-sh!” He took the gun
and poised it in readiness to sweep the cornfield.
He scowled at the boys and whispered angrily:
“Why didn’t yeh bring th’ powder-horn
an’ th’ thing with th’ bullets in?
I told yeh t’ bring ’em. I’ll
send somebody else next time.”
“Yeh didn’t tell us!” cried the
two boys shrilly.
“S-s-sh! Quit yeh noise,” said Peter,
with a violent gesture.
However, this reproof enabled other boys to recover
that peace of mind which they had lost when seeing
their friends loaded with honours.
The women had cautiously approached the fence, and,
from time to time, whispered feverish questions; but
Peter repulsed them savagely, with an air of being
infinitely bothered by their interference in his intent
watch. They were forced to listen again in silence
to the weird and prophetic chanting of the insects
and the mystic silken rustling of the corn.
At last the thud of hurrying feet in the soft soil
of the field came to their ears. A dark form
sped toward them. A wave of a mighty fear swept
over the group, and the screams of the women came hoarsely
from their choked throats. Peter swung madly
from his perch, and turned to use the fence as a rampart.
But it was the major. His face was inflamed and
his eyes were glaring. He clutched his rifle
by the middle and swung it wildly. He was bounding
at a great speed for his fat, short body.
“It’s all right! it’s all right!”
he began to yell some distance away. “It’s
all right! It’s on’y ol’ Milt’
Jacoby!”
When he arrived at the top of the fence he paused,
and mopped his brow.
“What?” they thundered, in an agony of
sudden, unreasoning disappointment.
Mrs. Joe Peterson, who was a distant connection of
Milton Jacoby, thought to forestall any damage to
her social position by saying at once disdainfully,
“Drunk, I s’pose!”
“Yep,” said the major, still on the fence,
and mopping his brow. “Drunk as a fool.
Thunder! I was surprised. I—I—thought
it was a rebel, sure.”
The thoughts of all these women wavered for a time.
They were at a loss for precise expression of their
emotion. At last, however, they hurled this superior
sentence at the major:
“Well, yeh might have known.”
“It looks as if it might rain this afternoon,”
remarked the lieutenant of artillery.
“So it does,” the infantry captain assented.
He glanced casually at the sky. When his eyes
had lowered to the green-shadowed landscape before
him, he said fretfully: “I wish those fellows
out yonder would quit pelting at us. They’ve
been at it since noon.”
