Zeb'll be the chap of all others to command a division of
shovellers. I see you with a pickaxe strapped on your side instead
of a sword."
"Lucky I'm not in command now," replied Zeb, "or you'd shovel dirt
under fire to the last hour of your enlistment. I'd give grumblers
like you something to grumble about. See here, fellows, I'm sick
of this seditious talk in our mess. The Connecticut men are
getting to be the talk of the army. You heard a squad of New
Hampshire boys jeer at us to-day, and ask, 'When are ye going home
to mother?' You ask, Zeke Watkins, what I expect to be. I expect
to be a soldier, and obey orders as long as Old Put and General
Washington want a man. All I ask is to be home summers long enough
to keep mother and the children off the town. Now what do you
expect to be after you give up your cook's ladle?"
"None o' your business."
"He's going home to court Susie Rolliffe," cried Nat Atkinson.
"They'll be married in the spring, and go into the chicken
business. That'd just suit Zeke."
"It would not suit Susie Rolliffe," said Zeb, hotly.
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