Kitabı oku: «A. D. 2000», sayfa 9

Lieutenant Sibley and the crew of the Tracer were quickly huddled at the door of the pilot’s room.

“Lieutenant,” said Irwin, with a salute, “I confess that we have had a very narrow escape from being run down by a heavy freighter. Explaining these instruments to Mr. Cobb, I failed to note the approach of the vessel.”

The alarm having subsided, the subject was fully discussed, and Mr. Irwin was exonerated by the Lieutenant. All parties then returned to their various occupations.

Mr. Irwin then turned to Cobb and said:

“It was very negligent of me not to carefully survey the field for approaching vessels. The Tracer carries but a single mast, and sits so low in the water, that these many merchant ships, with their sleepy crews, often fail to sight her until too late to make a proper clearing.” Then returning to the subject upon which they had been speaking when Cobb’s excited exclamation had burst forth, he continued:

“I see that you have understood the object of the little dark box on the table. It is a camera-obscura. The single mast of the Tracer is of aluminum, strong, slight, and hollow, and rises to a height of twenty-eight feet. A lens at the top revolves by pushing this button; thus a perfect image of the surrounding water and all upon it is thrown on the white ground within the box. Sitting here and looking in the box, I note the proximity of objects and steer the vessel. The mast also serves to carry an arc light for night traveling, and our flag by day. Further, our air is drawn down through pipes in its interior; for, during heavy seas, we must have the air inlets far above the deck, which is constantly washed by the rollers.”

Some further conversation was indulged in, and then Cobb thanked Mr. Irwin for his kindness, excused himself, and was soon seated, with Lieutenant Sibley, in the latter’s cozy cabin.

Lunch having been disposed of, Rawolle, taking out his watch, remarked to Cobb: “In a few minutes we will be directly over Louisville, Kentucky; and in these few minutes, I will briefly explain the effects of the great cataclysm of 1916, as I promised to do: The gas strata of the Ohio basin,” he began, “extending from above Pittsburgh to the Mississippi River, with pockets innumerable and ramifications in every direction, contained millions of millions of cubic feet of gas under varying pressures from nil to many atmospheres. The catastrophe at Dillenback’s ignited the gas in what appeared to have been the main strata. Explosion followed explosion throughout the region now occupied by the Central Sea. The earth was rent and broken, and the great vacuums, caused by the annihilation of the gases, took away the support of the upper crust, and then atmospheric pressure completed the ruin. The earth sank and crushed into these voids until a new foundation was reached. In some sections the fall of the crust was frightful, terrific. In the vicinity of Cincinnati but one shock was felt, but that shock was terrible, horrible, annihilating. The earth sank 196 feet at one fall. Not a living soul escaped the shock of impact upon the underlying strata. The city was an inconceivable mass of ruins, and in two days, was covered with water. So it was over a region of 100,000 square miles, the earth sinking everywhere, but to different depths and with different rates of depression. Pittsburgh sank 377 feet, but so slowly that few lives were lost, though the destruction of property was very great. At the mouth of the Ohio the earth sank only one foot, increasing toward the east. Millions of lives were sacrificed and untold wealth lost, for the great depression commenced immediately to fill with the waters from the streams flowing into the Ohio basin, and from the underlying strata. Even the Mississippi turned its waters into the old mouth of the Ohio and flowed east, leaving but a small, shallow stream to flow in its old bed until augmented by the streams and rivers emptying into it below Cairo. Even with all these waters it was an insignificant river until it reached the Arkansas and received the mass of water from that river. But in 1918 the river was diverted back to its proper channel; though later on the dam was removed, owing to the rise in the Central Sea, and the natural outlet being at Cairo. This, in brief, Mr. Cobb, is the effect of a single accident in a gun factory, in 1916; though who can tell but that it might have occurred later on from some other cause?”

“But did not those who were not injured by the shocks and falling buildings have time to move their effects before the waters overtook them? for, surely, this immense sea did not fill up in a few days,” ventured Cobb.

“Along the Ohio, from this side of Louisville to above Cincinnati, scarcely any property was saved. The depression was such that the submergence came very quickly. But this was not the case in the surrounding country. In one week the shocks were over and the earth quiet. People recovered from their fears a little, and looked about them. Later on they commenced to rebuild, and it was not until a year after that they found a new foe against which they could not combat: the country was below the level of any outlet, natural or artificial, and was filling up into an inland sea. Surveys were made, and in 1918 the true condition of the country ascertained. Then, and only then, was it found that the region now covered by the Central Sea was destined to be lost to mankind. Human ingenuity could not solve the problem of drainage. There was no drainage. Far below the bed of the Mississippi, the only possible outlet, the country was doomed to inundation. The survey was completed and the true limits established. All within that area began to be abandoned. Property, wherever possible, was removed; but the buildings, at least those which could not be taken apart and moved, still remain under the sea as monuments of a once densely populated area. To be sure, the removal was not rapid. The exact time was known, from the surveys made, when the waters would gain their maximum height, or reach to any particular point.”

“Such an immense basin must have required a considerable time to fill up?” inquired Cobb.

“It did – years. It was a gala day at Cairo, and a day of rejoicing throughout the land, when, on the 14th of August, 1939, the Central Sea reached the dam at that city, and passed over in a gently increasing stream. The dam was removed, the channel opened, and navigation from the ocean to this immense body of water, through the mouth of the old Ohio River, was unobstructed.”

“Why,” exclaimed Cobb, in astonishment, “that was twenty-three years after the disturbances! It took longer to fill up than I had imagined.”

“The area lost,” continued Rawolle, “was about one hundred thousand square miles; the volume nearly one hundred and seventy-five trillion cubic feet. The water-shed of the Ohio produced ten billion cubic feet per day, all of which flowed into the Central Sea. The first two years the Mississippi discharged a like amount into the sunken area. It was estimated that over ninety trillion cubic feet of water were pushed up, so to speak, from the strata of the earth by the subsidence of the upper crust. Thus, one hundred trillion cubic feet of water rushed into the doomed basin of the Ohio in the first two years, making inundation very rapid during that time, and frightfully rapid during the first week. The Ohio water-shed supplied nearly four trillion cubic feet per year, which, to complete the seventy-five trillion necessary to fill the sea, took twenty-one years.”

“This is a most wonderful occurrence, and did I not have ocular proof of its reality, I admit I should be loath to believe it a possibility;” and Cobb seemed lost in a reverie of the marvelous events which had transpired during his long sleep on Mt. Olympus.

The tinkling of a bell caused Lieutenant Sibley, who had been writing at his desk, to look up and say:

“I presume we are near Louisville.”

Then, going to the tube, he answered Mr. Irwin, in the pilot-room, and was informed that the vessel was then over the city of Louisville.

The Tracer was soon brought to a rest, and Cobb witnessed the peculiar arrangements made for descending to the bottom of the sea. He watched every movement and noted every detail, and saw with what wonderful facility a thousand-ton ship could be made to obey a man’s will.

The mast of the Tracer was dropped until its top rested upon the deck of the vessel, its top closing automatically to prevent the ingress of water. A large circular float containing air-valves, and attached to a long hose, was loosened from its fastenings on the deck. The water cylinders were opened, and as they partially filled, the vessel lost its superiority of displacement and began to sink; the large float, with its air-valves, and attached to the hose, remained upon the top of the water, permitting air to be drawn down into the vessel by suction. Thus a constant supply of fresh air was obtained without recourse to the compressed air in store. In fact, the latter was never used except in emergencies or when it was desired, as in the case of war, to keep the approach of the vessel a secret.

The sensation of falling was apparent, but it was indescribably peculiar; neither pleasing, nor yet distasteful – such a feeling as when, in his boyhood days, he had sat upon the board of a swing and let the “old cat die.”

Passing with Lieutenant Sibley and the others into the pilot’s room, he saw the ease with which the descent was regulated, and noted the instrument showing the depth of submersion.

Mr. Irwin pressed a button, and Cobb felt the tremor of a forward movement. The displacement being but a trifle less than the weight of the vessel, the movements of the ship were now regulated by its engines and double rudders.

Stepping to the side of the room, the Lieutenant threw open the steel covering of a bull’s-eye, and then pressed the button near it. A brilliant flash shot out, and the rays penetrated the water for a considerable distance in every direction.

“There!” cried Lieutenant Sibley, with an involuntary wave of his hand. “Behold the city of the dead, Louisville! – Louisville, once such a grand city, now a silent, slime-covered, submerged testimony of nature’s conquering power over man’s puny will.”

Cobb pressed his face against the glass and silently gazed upon the lifeless buildings and streets of the city. Even as they stood years ago, so stood many at that moment. Others were in ruins, with gaping walls and broken doors and windows, and all were covered with mud and slime and marine vegetation.

The streets were half-way up to the second stories, but the tops of the street-lamps could be discerned sticking out of the muddy sediment which had been deposited over everything.

Slowly the Tracer moved forward, and the whole expanse of the southeast side of this unfortunate, but once brilliant, city was presented to view.

What emotions filled that man’s breast, with his eyes glued, as if fascinated by some unknown power, upon the spot he had, in years long since past, visited, looked upon, and walked in! With a sickening feeling of utter sadness at his heart, he turned away.

“God’s ways are inscrutable,” he sighed. A tear glistened in his eye as he cried: “No more! Let us ascend!”

At 24 dial the Tracer was at her moorings in Pittsburgh, and Cobb, Rawolle, and Lyman took the Chicago Pneumatic for Washington.

As he lay in his berth in the sleeper, his mind reverted back to the days when he had met his friends in social evenings of pleasure; to his old friend in Duke’s Lane, and to the bright, lovely face of that man’s daughter. Ah! how he longed for but an hour with them – an hour of true friendship and love; how he craved to listen to but a moment’s innocent prattle of his girl-love. Alone among strangers, among a people far ahead of his time, he felt that he was looked upon as a curiosity, but not as one claiming sympathy and love as a relative or dear friend. Did the experiment come up to the ideal? Was he satisfied to die and live again? He asked these questions of himself. He meditated – reflected – and slept.

CHAPTER XI

It was 1:25 dial when the Chicago Pneumatic glided noiselessly into the switching section at Washington. Seizing their grips and coats, the party moved out on to the platform of the sleeper. In a moment the huge train had been raised by the hydraulic lift, and was soon standing in the depot of the capital of the United States.

What a beautiful and fairy-like scene presented itself to Junius Cobb! A depot of magnificent proportions, exquisite workmanship and finish, and possessing a hundred conveniences never dreamed of in his time. The great vaulted roof was set with thousands of electric lights which appeared like brilliant stars in the firmament. Thousands more, in every direction and in every conceivable place, made the vast chamber as bright as the midday sun.

At the barriers of the discharging section a great but orderly crowd was pushing and elbowing its way to a closer position at the gate. All Washington knew that Junius Cobb, the man of two centuries ago, would arrive on that particular train, and a great multitude had congregated to catch a glimpse of him.

As he passed through the gates, while the police pushed back the crowd, he heard their exclamations and remarks:

“There he is!”

“Where?”

“There, with Commissioner Rawolle – on his left.”

“I believe him to be a fake.”

“Oh, he’s a toola!”

“He has never slept a hundred years!”

“Isn’t he a young man to have lived so long?”

“What’s the matter with you? he didn’t live, he just slept.”

“They say he is an officer in the army yet.”

“Well, people will be gulled!”

Thus were the expressions bandied about, and fell upon the ears of Cobb in a harsh and unpleasant manner. He was not flattered by the remarks he heard. Already, it seemed, there was a desire to doubt his identity.

As they neared the center of the hall, someone in the crowd cried: “Junius Cobb! Junius Cobb! Three cheers for Junius Cobb!” And the building rang and echoed back the salutation. Surely this was flattering. His reception, after all, was not without sincerity on the part of many of that vast throng.

A step or two more, and Cobb and Rawolle entered an electric drag, while Lyman bade them good-night, or rather good-morning, and hurried away to report.

Away, and at a rapid gait, sped the drag, its wheels of rubber giving no sound on the elastic pavement of the street, its headlight flashing out a brilliant beam, while ever and anon the driver caused a muffled-toned gong, whose sound was low and musical, to indicate the approach of the carriage.

Looking from the window on his side, Cobb saw to what extent street illumination had progressed in a hundred years. At every fifty feet, on either side, were arc lamps; and this at two in the morning, when those of the shops were extinguished. No gas lights were visible. It was a September morning, but the air was mild and balmy, and it seemed like a morning in early spring. Many people were upon the street, and the electric drags, with their flashing lights and musical gongs, were passing in every direction.

At exactly 1:42 dial the drag stopped under the arch of the entrance to the President’s mansion, and Junius Cobb was received by the chief magistrate of the United States.

Emory D. Craft, President of the United States, was a tall, rotund, and pleasant gentleman of over sixty years of age. His head was massive, and his features square and clean-cut; his hair almost white, and a beard heavy and gray. A man of great perception, executive ability, true kindness, and wisdom, he ruled the greatest nation on earth as a loving father rules his household, with justice and firmness.

As Rawolle and Cobb alighted, he descended the steps, and, advancing, extended his hand to the former, exclaiming:

“I welcome you back, Mr. Rawolle.”

“Thank you, sir; and let me present Mr. Junius Cobb.”

“Mr. Cobb, I cannot express to you the pleasure of this meeting;” and the President shook the young man’s hand heartily. “Be assured that your remarkable, nay, wonderful, case has been uppermost in my mind since first I became aware of your existence.”

“Nor can I, Mr. President, express the gratification I feel in meeting and shaking the hand of the chief magistrate of this great nation, especially when that magistrate is ruling the country a hundred and forty years after my birth.”

Cobb seemed proud of the fact that he, of all the world, could make such a statement.

A few moments later, the President and Cobb were sitting before a glowing, cheerful fire, engaged in earnest conversation.

Mr. Rawolle had been dismissed by the President, and had hastened to the welcome he knew awaited him from his wife and children.

“There, Mr. President,” said Cobb, after a long recital of his life and the facts attending his entombment on Mt. Olympus, “you have the whole story. It is a remarkable one, is it not?”

“Stranger than any fiction I ever read,” he exclaimed. “I can scarcely believe that I behold the intimate friend and contemporary of my great-grandfather in the person of one so young as you.”

He looked at Cobb in wonder and awe.

“And are you the great-grandson of Hugh Craft, my dear old friend of 1887?” cried Cobb with joy, as if a new tie had been found to bind him to this new world.

“Yes; here is our family history.” He arose and went to the cabinet, and returned with a large book. “Read it;” opening it and handing it to the other; “you will there see the history of your friend.” He placed his finger on the page.

Cobb read slowly, and like one in a dream, this page of the history of the dead – this chronicle of the life of his chum and bosom friend.

“First Lieutenant, Captain, Major,” he read, “killed at the battle of Ottawa, August 5, 1917.”

He read it over twice; then suddenly turning to the President, he cried:

“A soldier’s death! A noble ending to a noble man! But what battle is this in which he died?”

“’Tis a long story – too long for to-night,” the President replied; “but, in brief, it was the decisive termination of English power in North America. Canada desired annexation to the United States: England opposed it. British troops were massed on Canadian soil, and she endeavored to prevent the loss of her colonies. War between the Canadians and the mother country followed. We looked on, but offered no assistance. It was not until the cry for freedom became a wail of misery and a piteous appeal for succor, that we interfered. We offered England $500,000,000 for the whole of her possessions in North America. The offer was refused with contempt. Indignation prevailed throughout the United States, and public opinion demanded that assistance be given to the suffering people in their struggle for freedom. Great Britain was notified by joint resolution of Congress of March 22, 1917, to evacuate Canada and all territory between the boundaries of the United States and parallel fifty-one degrees of north latitude. The demand was refused; and on April 2, in full Congress, war was declared against England. For twenty-five years, or from about 1890, this country had been building first-class ships of war, fortifying its coast and putting the nation in a condition to enforce its demands.”

“They hadn’t done much in my time,” broke in Cobb, with a thought of the utterly defenseless condition of the country in 1887.

“No,” continued the President; “but Congress, as you can see by referring to history, in 1890 awoke to the necessity of national protection. In 1917, we could and did enforce our demand. The war was short but terrible. England’s great but slow floating fortresses were no match for our harbor vessels. She never gained entrance to a single port of note, but lost many of her finest ships in the attempt. On land, of course, the effect of our arms was more rapid. An army marched across the border, and the decisive battle of Ottawa was fought. Here was gathered all of England’s force of occupation. On August 5, 1917, her army was utterly routed, and laid down its arms. With the loss of her American army, and the destruction of many of her finest iron-clads, England asked for terms. By the protocol of October 16th, England, in consideration of $250,000,000, relinquished, forever, all possessions on the continent of North America, together with all national property, fortifications, etc.”

“And poor Craft never lived to see the fruits of his nation’s courage,” said Cobb.

“No; he died in the charge of his regiment.” And then, after a pause: “But Hugh Craft still lives. I will introduce him to you to-morrow – do not ask any questions,” as Cobb was about to interrupt him – “to-morrow, or rather to-day; and until then, you must sleep.”

It was 4 dial when Cobb was shown to his apartments.

The next morning Cobb was awakened from a refreshing slumber by a voice singing:

 
“He sleeps; he wakes; the hour is late.
Arise, get up! the clock strikes eight.”
 

Springing quickly from his bed, he glanced around the room. Again the song and words, and again he looked, but saw no one. Wondering much at the occurrence, he proceeded with his toilet.

At 8:45 he was with the President at breakfast, and had been introduced to Mrs. Craft and her lovely daughter, Mollie.

“Papa says he has taken complete possession of you, Mr. Cobb; and I am so glad, for I want you to tell me so much about those queer old days so long ago;” and she gave him a pleasant smile.

“We are delighted, dear Mr. Cobb, to have you with us. You must consider this your home now, for you have no other, you know;” and good Mrs. Craft spoke in a motherly tone of voice.

“And, of course, you will want a sister;” Mollie Craft cast her eyes down in a shy manner.

“Yes,” said Mr. Craft, with evident pleasure and hope in his voice. “We want you to feel that you have not left all your friends in that distant age. We desire you to consider this your home as long as it shall please you to do so. My wife and I will endeavor to be a mother and a father to you; our daughter, a sister; our son, a brother.”

Mollie Craft was a lovely girl of nineteen years – tall, dark, and robust. She was possessed of a clear skin, sparkling eyes, and beautiful teeth. She was accomplished, and a leader among the young ladies of her set. Her disposition was frank, kind, and retiring. No wonder that Cobb’s eyes often wandered in her direction during that breakfast! It seemed to him that he had never before seen so lovely a face and figure, nor such charming ways as Mollie Craft was mistress of. Yes, there was one face that held just comparison with that before him; there was one figure that matched the symmetry of Mollie Craft; but, alas! she was no more! The queen was dead, but the princess lived! So passed the thoughts in his mind.

Adjourning to the President’s library, for Mr. Craft loved to have his family about him while he smoked his after-breakfast cigar, the conversation proceeded with animation, but always with Cobb as the central figure.

 
“A Captain in the army, a Colonel up a tree;
Quite soon I’ll be a Major, as you can plainly see.”
 

As the words came forth in a free though quiet manner, a young man entered the door, stopped, and then, bowing, exclaimed:

“Pardon me; I did not know that you had company.”

Junius Cobb looked up; then, starting from his seat with a white and perplexed expression, sprang toward the stranger, who, in astonishment, drew half back through the door.

“Hugh Craft! How came you here?”

Recovering himself, the man replied, but with embarrassment:

“Well! that’s very good, indeed! Asking a man what he is doing in his own father’s house!” and he gave a quiet, undecided laugh.

“Mr. Cobb, my son. Hugh, this is Mr. Junius Cobb; you know who he is,” with emphasis on the pronoun.

Junius Cobb rubbed his eyes in confusion. He comprehended the situation at once, and also remembered the President’s words of the night before, when he said, “Hugh Craft still lives.”

Hugh Craft bowed, and moved behind his sister’s chair, and whispered:

“Is he dangerous?”

Cobb, as he turned around, overheard the words, and smiled.

“No, Hugh,” he exclaimed; “not dangerous, but amazed. You are the exact image and counterpart of him who was my dearest and best friend, your – ” he hesitated a moment – “your great-great-grandfather.”

Hugh and Mollie looked bewildered, while Mr. Craft’s face wore a smile. The situation was too comical, and all burst into a hearty laugh, Cobb joining the others.

“It is funny, is it not, to hear me talking of having been the friend and chum of this man’s great-great-grandfather?”

A few moments and everything had been fully explained to Hugh, who had been absent a week, and had not heard that Cobb was at the executive mansion.

“Dear brother,” said Mollie, as she put her arms about the young man’s neck and kissed him, “I want you and Mr. Cobb to be brothers; to be to each other as your great-great-grandfather and he were long years ago.”

“Hugh,” said his father, “as you have returned so opportunely, you can take charge of Mr. Cobb – Junius, let us call him, if he does not object – until time for the reception. I have some work to attend to, and I know Junius will excuse me – will you not?” to him.

“Certainly. Do not let my presence interfere with your work; and let me thank you for calling me Junius. I hope you will always continue to do so.”

For an hour these three – Hugh, Junius, and Mollie – sat and chatted. To Cobb it seemed very home-like and most pleasant, and his companions so kind and natural. Hugh was so like that other Hugh, and Mollie so charming and witty, that he scarcely realized, as Hugh looked at his watch and said that they had better dress, that an hour had passed away.

On their way to their rooms, Cobb suddenly said:

“By the bye, Hugh, I wish to ask you a question. This morning, as I was about to arise, I heard someone singing in my room. It was not a very melodious voice, but nevertheless clear and distinct; something like ‘Get up, arise; the hour is late!’ Can you explain it?”

“Nothing easier. It was my old phonograph clock – one I picked up at a pawn-shop one day – a relic of fifty years back;” and he laughed at the thought of his friend’s perplexity at hearing the words ground out of the machine.

“Why did I not think of that?” petulantly. “Why, they were just getting them out in 1887. Do you not have them now?”

“No; we have something better. The electric clock companies of every city run their wires to nearly every house in their towns, and to these wires are attached electric clocks. The resident buys the clock for five dollars, and pays twenty-five cents a month for its use. At the central station, a large clock of the finest make, and absolutely correct in its time, causes all the others to follow its movements. Thus every house has a dial which records correctly and requires no care. It is simple, cheap, and beneficial.”

At the President’s reception, at 11 dial, Junius Cobb was the lion of the hour. Senators gave him every attention; the foreign ambassadors treated him as a man of the greatest distinction; the army and navy laughed, chatted, and petted him.

Just after the introductions of the Senators, Tsu-nan-li, the Minister from China, and dean of the diplomatic corps, approached and bowed low to the President; the latter, also, bowing low, in acknowledgment of the salutation, said:

“O Sölal obik! Dälolsös obe nuikön mani yunik olse kela sava milagik de deil penunols, fuliko, nen dot.”¹

As the President made the introduction, Cobb gave a slight start at hearing him speak in Volapük; then a smile of pleasure came over his face.

Bowing to the young man, the Minister expressed his pleasure at the meeting by saying:

“O Söl obik löfik! Panunob das pebinols bevü pedeilölsis balmil jöltum jölsevel, kaleda olsik. In ols logob oni, kel pegönom fa Confucius e Buddha god, in dat padälols denu getön luti lifa. Ogivols stimi obe fa visitöl obi ven plidos-la olsi kömön.”²

Seeing the President about to translate the words of Tsu-nan-li, Cobb quickly interrupted him, and, smiling at his ability to meet at least one of the requirements of this new age, said:

“O Söl President, ed ols, Sölal obik! No stunolsös lilön obi gepükön in pük egebols. Lesevob, äs jen lefulnik, ut kel päbüsagos äyelos lemödik, das tim äkömomöv ven valik nets kulik äcälomsöv volapüki. Klödöl das et del no äbinom fago, ästudob at pük, ed adelo logob bizugi osa.”³

An expression of astonishment overspread the faces of the other two gentlemen, and the President exclaimed, gleefully:

“Good enough, Cobb! There’s one thing of the past equal to the present.”

The others claiming attention, no more was said, and the throng of visitors met, were introduced to and passed the President and Junius Cobb.

A little later a party of officers were talking to Cobb near the grand stairway. Speculation was rife as to what his position in the army would be, knowing that he had been dropped for desertion years ago. The discussion was animated, though Cobb himself took no active part in it.

“Ah! Cobb, my boy,” and a tall young man, in the full regimentals of a captain in the Second Cavalry – Cobb’s old regiment – came forward and familiarly slapped him on the shoulder:

“I have been looking for you. Hugh informs me that you will undoubtedly be restored to your rank in the army; in fact, he says that they can’t help giving you your commission again.”

“Ah!” from Cobb, as he looked the other in the face.

“Yes,” smiling. “And you will be my lieutenant, for I command your old troop of the Second. You will be a böd seledik (rare bird) to us in the Second, and, as I am ordered to join my regiment on the 10th of next month, I intend applying to have you ordered back with me.”

Several smiled at the young captain’s cool impudence, but Cobb simply bowed in recognition of the other’s desire for his company to his regiment.

Captain Hathaway, of the Second Cavalry, was twenty-eight years of age, tall in stature, slight in build, and wearing a little, light mustache. With a glass in his eye, and a voice which sounded low and sweet, he was, with all his known cool impudence, a right clever fellow. But he had taken a dislike to Junius Cobb – and why?