"No, sir; you just went to sleep. You haven't got no headache,
have you?"

"No--but it was only corn whisky. I didn't remember what I did
with it. Is there any left?"

"Not much, sir."

The servant, ugly to the verge of deformity, and wearing invariably
the abominable smirk that disgusted others but amused Berkley, went
about his duties.

Berkley blinked at him reflectively, then bathed, dressed, and sat
down to a bowl of chocolate and a bit of bread.

"What the devil was all that row this morning, Burgess?"

"War, sir. The President has called for seventy-five thousand men.
Here it is, sir." And he laid a morning paper beside the cup of
chocolate, which Berkley studied between sips, commenting
occasionally aloud:

"Heavens, Burgess, why, we're a race of patriots! Now who on earth
could have suspected that. . . . Why, we seem to be heroes, too!
What do you think of that, Burgess? You're a hero; I'm a hero;
everybody north of Charleston is an embattled citizen or a hero!
Isn't it funny that nobody realised all this before?" . . . He
turned the paper leisurely sipping his chocolate. . . . "_Of_
course--the 'dear old flag'! That's the cheese, isn't it, Burgess?
Been insulted, hasn't it? And we're all going to Charleston to