I was not alone in the disregard of romantic possibilities. Later in the afternoon I saw a wounded private propped up against a fence, and bleeding copiously from a bullet-hole that extended through both cheeks. His eyes were closed, and he was making queer noises in his throat. As I happened to be idle at the instant, I stepped to his side, and inquired compassionately if I could do anything for him. He opened his eyes with a jerk, spat forth a couple of teeth, and replied: "If you'll tell me how the beginning of 'Sweet Marie' goes, I'll give you a piece of my face for a souvenir. I've been trying to get that blame tune straight for the last fifteen minutes, but keep getting off my trolley." And he laughed a ghastly laugh. I stared at him in amazement, and then, seeing that he was not delirious, strode moodily away. What that man ought to have said was, "How goes the fight?" or "A drop of water, for God's sake"; but it is the painful truth that he didn't.
A striking feature of the engagement was the thoroughly matter-of-fact manner in
