old-fashioned
billiard-tables, a huge coal stove, some rough benches, chairs, two or
three round tables, and the inevitable bar and cigar-stand, bore on the
portals the legend "officers'," as distinguished from the general
"club-room" beyond.

Seated around the room in various attitudes of _ennui_ and dejection
were three or four infantry officers stationed at the post, while at one
of the tables a trio of young lieutenants were killing time after
morning drill in the fascination of "limited draw." Target practice, as
now conducted, was then unknown, or there would have been no time to
kill. The announcement languidly conveyed from the occupant of the
window-seat, "A squad of the --th coming," produced neither sensation
nor visible effect.

A minute more, however, and the door burst open, and in they came, half
a dozen glowing, breezy, vigorous young cavalrymen, ruddy with health,
elastic with open-air life and exercise, brimful of good spirits and
cordiality, and headed by the declamatory Blake, who made a bee-line for
the bar, shouting,--

"'An if a man did need a poison now,
Here lives a caitiff wretch would sell it him.'

His name's Muldoon, and he's a fluid man. Step out, Muldoon. What'll ye
have, fellers?" he asked, with the sudden transition from the sublime to
the ridiculous, which was one of Blake's delights. "Name your respective
pizens, gentlemen. Come, join us, ye gallants of mud-crushers. What, ho!
Poker?" and with one stride he was at the table and peering over the
hands: "No use, Sammy,--

'Two queens with but a single ace,
Two sharps that beat as one.'

That's no hand to tackle a one-card draw with. Never you mind whether
he's bluffing or not. There ain't enough in that pot to warrant the
expense of testing the question. Take another deal. _What_ did you say,
Muldoon? Whiskey? No! Throw whiskey to the dogs; I'll none of it. Give
me foaming lager. That's right, my doughboy ancient. Didn't I tell you
to take another hand? What says the inimitable Pope?--

'Fair tresses man's imperial race ensnare,
And Sammy scoops us with a single pair.'"

"Good heavens! Blake. Give us a rest! Here, swallow your beer, or take
something to choke you," laughed the victim at the table, while a chorus
of groans saluted Blake's unconscionable parodies. "If you were to be
here a week longer I vow I'd go mad. The best news I've heard in a year
is that you're ordered to march in the morning. What