The General raised his head from his correspondence.
"Ah," he said, looking down on the humble boy, "I see; I shall
write that the appliances of civilization move steadily forward
with the army. Yes," he added, "you may shine my military boots.
You understand, however, that to get your pay you must first--"
"Make a requisition on the commissary-general, have it certified to
by the quartermaster, countersigned by the post-adjutant, and
submitted by you to the War Department--"
"And charged as stationery," added the General, gently. "You are,
I see, an intelligent and thoughtful boy. I trust you neither use
whisky, tobacco, nor are ever profane?"
"I promised my sainted mother--"
"Enough! Go on with your blacking; I have to lead the attack on
the 'Pigeon Feet' at eight precisely. It is now half-past seven,"
said the General, consulting a large kitchen clock that stood in
the corner of his tent.
The little boot-black looked up; the General was absorbed in his
correspondence. The boot-black drew a tin putty blower from his
pocket, took unerring aim, and nailed in a single shot the minute
hand to the dial.
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