The adjutant tries to be smart and polite, smiles a
smole both child-like and bland, rolls up his shirt-sleeves, and winks
one eye at you, gets astraddle of a camp-stool, whistles a little stanza
of schottische, and with a big flourish of his pen, writes the major-
general's name in small letters, and his own--the adjutant's--in very
large letters, bringing the pen under it with tremendous flourishes,
and writes approved and forwarded. You feel relieved. You feel that the
anaconda's coil had been suddenly relaxed. Then you start out to the
lieutenant-general; you find him. He is in a very learned and dignified
conversation about the war in Chili. Well, you get very anxious for the
war in Chili to get to an end. The general pulls his side-whiskers,
looks wise, and tells his adjutant to look over it, and, if correct,
sign it. The adjutant does not deign to condescend to notice you.
He seems to be full of gumbo or calf-tail soup, and does not wish his
equanimity disturbed. He takes hold of the document, and writes the
lieutenant-general's name, and finishes his own name while looking in
another direction--approved and forwarded. Then you take it up to the
general; the guard stops you in a very formal way, and asks, "What do you
want?" You tell him.
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