.

But these valiant artillerymen paid little heed to such small matters,
and felt justly proud when the report of a battle stated the number of
victims at tenfold the quantity of projectiles expended.

One day, however, a sad and lamentable day, peace was signed by the
survivors of the war, the noise of firing gradually ceased, the mortars
were silent, the howitzers were muzzled for long enough, and the cannon,
with muzzles depressed, were stored in the arsenals, the shots were
piled up in the parks, the bloody reminiscences were effaced, cotton
shrubs grew magnificently on the well-manured fields, mourning garments
began to be worn-out, as well as sorrow, and the Gun Club had nothing
whatever to do.

Certain old hands, inveterate workers, still went on with their
calculations in ballistics; they still imagined gigantic bombs and
unparalleled howitzers. But what was the use of vain theories that could
not be put in practice? So the saloons were deserted, the servants slept
in the antechambers, the newspapers grew mouldy on the tables, from dark
corners issued sad snores, and the members of the Gun Club, formerly so
noisy, now reduced to silence by the disastrous peace, slept the sleep
of Platonic artillery!

"This is distressing," said brave Tom Hunter, whilst his wooden legs
were carbonising at the fireplace of the smoking-room. "Nothing to do!
Nothing to look forward to! What a tiresome existence! Where is the time
when cannon awoke you every morning with its joyful reports?"

"That time is over," answered dandy Bilsby, trying to stretch the arms
he had lost. "There was some fun then! You invented an howitzer, and it
was hardly cast before you ran to try it on the enemy; then you went
back to the camp with an encouragement from Sherman, or a shake of the
hands from MacClellan! But now the generals have gone back to their
counters, and instead of cannon-balls they expedite inoffensive cotton
bales! Ah, by Saint Barb! the future of artillery is lost to America!"

"Yes, Bilsby," cried Colonel Blomsberry, "it is too bad! One fine
morning you leave your tranquil occupations, you are drilled in the use
of arms, you leave Baltimore for the battle-field, you conduct yourself
like a hero, and in two years, three years at the latest, you are
obliged to leave the fruit of so many fatigues, to go to sleep in
deplorable idleness, and keep your hands in your pockets."

The valiant colonel would have found it very difficult