"He wears a mustache guard. I offered him a cigar. He saluted: 'Thank
you,' he said. 'Nevare I schmoke.'"
"They are the pets of the expedition," Grafton went on, "they and that
war-like group of correspondents over there. They'll go down on the
flag-ship, while we nobodies will herd together on one boat. But we'll
all be on the same footing when we get there."
Just then a big man, who was sitting on the next divan twisting his
mustache and talking chiefly with his hands, rolled up and called
Grafton.
"Huh!" he said.
"Huh!" mimicked Grafton.
"You don't know much about the army."
"Six weeks ago I couldn't tell a doughboy officer from a cavalryman by
the stripe down his legs."
The big man smiled with infinite pity and tolerance.
"Therefore," said Grafton, "I shall not pass judgment, deliver expert
military opinions, and decide how the campaign ought to be
conducted--well, maybe for some days yet."
"You've got to. You must have a policy--a Policy. I'll give you one."
And he began--favoring monosyllables, dashes, exclamation points, pauses
for pantomime, Indian sign language, and heys, huhs, and humphs that
were intended to fill out sentences and round up elaborate argument.
"There is a lot any damn fool can say, of course, hey? But you mustn't
say it, huh? Give 'em hell afterward." (Pantomime.) "That's right, ain't
it? Understand? Regular army all right." (Sign language.) "These damn
fools outside--volunteers, politicians, hey? Had best army in the world
at the close of the old war, see? Best equipped, you understand, huh?
Congress" (violent Indian sign language) "wanted to squash it--to
squash it--that's right, you understand, huh? Cut it down--cut it down,
see? Illustrate: Wanted 18,000 mules for this push, got 2,000, see? Same
principle all through; see? That's right! No good to say anything
now--people think you complain of the regular army, huh? Mustn't say
anything now--give 'em hell afterward--understand?" (More sign
language.) "Hell afterward. All right now, got your policy, go ahead."
Grafton nodded basely, and without a smile: "Thanks, old man--thanks. It's very lucid."
A little later Crittenden saw the stout civilian, Major Billings, fairly
puffing with pride, excitement, and a fine uniform of khaki, whom he had
met at Chickamauga; and Willings, the surgeon; and Chaffee, now a
brigadier; and Lawton, soon to command a division; and, finally, little
Jerry Carter, quiet, unassuming, dreamy, slight, old, but active, and
tough as hickory. The little general greeted Crittenden like a son.