“Get on the table,” said Casson amid the cheering, and climbed up, spurs jingling, glass on high.

“Will it hold us all?” inquired Letty Lynden, giving her hands to Berkley, who shrugged and swung her up beside him.  “Hurrah for the Zouaves!” she cried; “Hurrah for Billy Cortlandt!—­Oh, somebody spilled champagne all over me!”

“Hurrah for the artillery!” shouted Arthur Wye, vigorously cheering himself and waving his glass, to the terror of Ione Carew, who attempted to dodge the sparkling rain in vain.

“Arthur, you look like a troop of trained mice,” observed Berkley gravely.  “Has anybody a toy cannon and a little flag?”

Wye descended with a hop, sprang astride a chair, and clattered around the room, imitating his drill-master.

“Attention!  By the right of batteries, break into sections, trot.  Mar-r-rch!  Attention-n-n!  By section from the right of batteries—­front into column.  Mar-r-rch!”

“By section from the right, front into column, march!” repeated Cortlandt, jumping down from the table and seizing another chair.  “Everybody mount a chair!” he shouted.  “This is the last artillery drill of the season.  Line up there, Letty!  It won’t hurt your gown.  Berkley’ll get you another, anyway!  Now, ladies and gentlemen, sit firmly in your saddles.  Caissons to the rear—­march!  Caissons, left about—­pieces forward—­march!”

Wye’s chair buckled and he came down with a splintering crash; Casson galloped madly about, pretending his chair had become unmanageable.  It, also, ultimately collapsed, landed him flat on his back, whence he surveyed the exercises of the haute ecole in which three flushed and laughing young girls followed the dashing lead of Cortlandt, while Berkley played a cavalry canter on the piano with one hand and waved his cigar in the other.

Later, breathless, they touched glasses to the departing volunteers, to each other, to the ladies ("God bless them!  Hear!  He-ah!"), to the war, to every regiment going, to each separate battery horse and mule in Arthur’s section.  And then began on the guns,

“I prophesy a quick reunion!” said Berkley.  “Here’s to it!  Full glasses!

“Speech!  Speech—­you nimble-witted, limber-legged prophet!” roared John Casson, throwing a pack of cards at Berkley.  “Read the cards for us!”

Berkley very gracefully caught a handful, and sorting them, began impromptu: 

  “Diamonds for you,
  Little Miss Carew,
  Strung in a row,
  Tied in a bow—­
  What would you do
  If they came true?

“What can it be? Hearts! for Miss Letty—­ Sweethearts and beaux, Monarchs in rows, Knaves on their knees—­ Choose among these!

“Clubs now, I see! Ace! for Miss Betty—­ Clubman and swell, Soldier as well.  Yes, he’s all three; Who can he be?

  “Ione, be kind
  To monarch and knave,
  But make up your mind
  To make ’em behave. 
  And when a man finds you
  The nicest he’s met, he
  Is likely to marry you,
  Letty and Betty!”