," said the sergeant, in a whisper, "you're right about the
chaplain's sermon. It's the duty of every man who can carry a gun to
fight for his country. I saw the chaplain looking straight at you, and
he was as mad as fire. A white-livered coward stands a mighty poor
chanst of salvation, is what the chaplain thinks."

"Does you mean that?" anxiously asked Kettle.

"Don't I?" responded Sergeant Halligan, confidently. "Maybe you think
it's hard lines to have to drill all day and walk post all night, but
it's a merry jest compared with burning in hell fire. I'd ruther drill
and walk post all my life than find myself in the lake of brimstone and
sulphur that's a-waitin' for cowards."

"Tain't the drill and the walkin' post as skeers me," said Kettle, "but
I ain't noways fond of guns. If it wasn't for them devilish guns I'd
enlist, pertickler if they'd let me stay with Miss Betty and the baby."

"Sure they would," replied the artful Halligan with a wink. "The
Colonel wouldn't disoblige his lady. You'd be detailed to work around
the house here, and you'd look grand in uniform."

"You think so?" said Kettle, with a delighted grin, "I always did have
a kinder honin' after them yaller stripes down my legs."

"And a sabre and a sabretache," continued the Sergeant. Times were
sometimes dull at Fort Blizzard, and the men in the barracks could get
a good many laughs out of Kettle as a soldier.

The yellow stripes down his legs and the sabre and sabretache were
dazzling to Kettle, But an objection rose on the horizon.

"How 'bout them hosses?" he asked, "I ain't never been on no hoss sence
the time when I wuz a little shaver, and the Kun'l--he wasn't nothin'
but a lieutenant then--wuz courtin' Miss Betty, and he pick me up and
put me on a hoss he call Birdseye. Lord! It makes me feel creepy now,
to tink 'bout that hoss!"

"Oh, you needn't bother about horses," answered the Sergeant,
cheerfully. "The Colonel could manage that, and you can wear your
uniform just the same."

"I reckon I could ride a gentle hoss," ventured Kettle.

"'Course," replied the Sergeant confidently, "I think I can manage it
with the orficer in charge of mounts. I could get the milkman's hoss
for you. She is twenty-three years old and as quiet as an old maid of
seventy-five; she wouldn't run away or kick, not even if you was to
build a fire under her."

This seemed to dispose of the great difficulty in Kettle's mind, when
the Sergeant