BUCKTHORN. Ah! The Surgeon. How is Colonel West, this morning, after
the wound he received last night?

BARKET. He says, himself, that he's as well as iver he was; but the
Colonel and Surgeon don't agray on that subject. The dochter says he
mustn't lave his room for a month. The knife wint dape; and there's
somethin' wrong inside of him. But the Colonel, bein' on the outside
himsilf, can't see it. He's as cross as a bear, baycause they wouldn't
let him go to the front this morning, at the head of his regiment. I
happened to raymark that the Chaplain was prayin' for his raycovery.
The Colonel said he'd court-martial him if he didn't stop that--quick;
there's more important things for the Chaplain to pray for in his
official capacity. Just at that moment the trumpets sounded, "Boots
and Saddles." I had to dodge one of his boots, and the Surgeon had a
narrow escape from the ither one. It was lucky for us both his saddle
wasn't in the room.

BUCKTHORN. That looks encouraging. I think Kerchival will get on.

BARKET. Might I say a word to you, sur, about Miss Jenny?

BUCKTHORN. Certainly, Barket. You and old Margery and myself have been
a sort of triangular mother, so to speak, to the little girl--since
her own poor mother left her to our care, when she was only a baby,
in the old fort on the Plains. [_At his side and unconsciously resting
his arm over_ BARKET'S _shoulder, familiarly. Suddenly draws up._]
Ahem! [_Then gruffly._] What is it? Proceed.

BARKET. Her mother's bosom would have been the softest place for her