It was an
honest face, with unworldly sort of blue eyes, that looked out from
under the broad visor of the infantry cap. With a deferential glance
towards us, the new-comer unstrapped his knapsack, spread his blanket
over it, and sat down unobtrusively.
"Rather damp night out," remarked Blakely, whose strong hand was
supposed to be conversation.
"Quite so," replied the stranger, not curtly, but pleasantly, and with
an air as if he had said all there was to be said about it.
"Come from the North recently?" inquired Blakely, after a pause.
"Yes."
"From any place in particular?"
"Maine."
"People considerably stirred up down there?" continued Blakely,
determined not to give up.
"Quite so."
Blakely threw a puzzled look over the tent, and seeing Ned Strong on the
broad grin, frowned severely. Strong instantly assumed an abstracted
air, and began humming softly,
"I wish I was in Dixie."
"The State of Maine," observed Blakely, with a certain defiance of
manner not at all necessary in discussing a geographical question, "is a
pleasant State."
"In summer," suggested the stranger.
"In summer, I mean," returned Blakely with animation, thinking he had
broken the ice. "Cold as blazes in winter, though,--isn't it?"
The new recruit merely nodded.
Blakely eyed the man homicidally for a moment, and then, smiling one of
those smiles of simulated gayety which the novelists inform us are more
tragic than tears, turned upon him with withering irony.
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