The L'Anse sentinel. (L'Anse, L.S., Mich.) 18??-current, 1901-02-16
And the road a-slidin' past.
An every bloomin' campin' ground e.
actly like the last;

An every bloomin campin ground ~
actly like the last;
While the big drum says.
With Is rowdy-dowdy -dowF"--
'Kiko kissywarsti don't you hamshe.
| argy jow?"
There were more verses, each with
this singular refrain. When it was
through Ted put the book into his
pocket and lighted cigar. She had
expected him to do something differ
ent-something that would have given
her time to get away; but he turned
| 10 quickly toward her that as he
looked over the lighted match their
eyes met.
| Surprised! Well, IL is hard to say.
Ted has such calm way of taking
things. "Hello!" he said.
And what do you suppose she did
then? Walked straight up to the
headstone and read the name, will
liam Arapahoe."
"Why! it wasn't a--a--" she ex-
claimed. She caught herself just in
time.
"A what?" said Ted.
| "a veterans" said she. She was
/
Of relief that had come to her.
"No," said Ted; "he didn't live long
| enough for that"
| "He was soldier, them" ~
"He was" said Ted quietly. "He
was good one"
Then he told her the story of the
friendship-his and Arapahoe Bills;
how they had met in San Antonio at
the mastering of the First Volunteer
cavalry, how they had been bunkies
in Cuba, had stormed the hill to-
gether, and together had fought the
fever in that long, dreary wait after
the red and yellow flag had ceased to
wave and before the transports were
ready.
"And il Bill hadn't kept me full
of quinine and gone to the brook
twice day with the canteens / guess
would have knocked under" said
Ted.
would your" said she, looking at
him earnestly.
"There's not doubt of it. If it
hadn't been for Bill I'd be asleep
now somewhere in Cuba-just as he
is here"
won't you tell me about him?"
she asked, in soft voice.
Ted, thus encouraged, made eulogy
| Of Arapahoe Bill. "At the last, when
he knew the fever had the best Of
him, he used to talk about where he
should like to lie after he had
cashed in as he said. He had hor-
ror, of being left down there. That's
why he's here. i told him I'd fix it.
The lilacs? Oh, he liked them best.
They made him remember big bush
by the kitchen door somewhere"
"But those queer verses?" she
asked.
"Don't you know them? Route
Marchin',' by Kipling. had the Bar
racks Room Ballads in my haver-
sack. used to read them to Bill. He
thought Danny Deever' was fair, and
he could tolerate 'Fuzzy-Wuzzy, but
'Route-Marchin' was the only one
that seemed to really please him.
Say, Bunkie, that's the real article,
that is,' he would say. Sounds jess
like bunch O. reg'lars comm along,
don't it?' He learned part of the re-
frain by heart-that part which goes:
| With its best foot first,
| And the road a-slidin' past.
| An every bloomin' campin'-ground ex-
| actly like the last:
but the Hindustani bat of the last
than a few hours at a time. This
troubled him, and just before he died
1t was on clustering day-he said
he had one thing to ask. He wanted
to know If sometimes, when came
out to see how he was resting, I
wouldn't read the whole thing over
| to him, lin case he should forget!'
Poor old Bill"
| Although Ted knew it not, he had
found, just as Othello found, the
plant hour. Dry-eyed and calmly
brushing the ash from his cigars end
he suddenly became aware that Sob
bling and somewhat hysterical young
woman had thrown her arms about
his neck.
ooh, Ted!" That was all she said,
but the words were big with meaning
to him, for, standing there above the
narrow bed where Arapahoe Bill was
sleeping the long sleep, much happi-
ness came to him.
"And you must come and bring Ii
laos every spring, and read to him.
she said at length; 'and will come
with YOU"
When Ted, with a drum beating in
his heart, as Barrie has it, got back
to his rooms he found note which
had escaped his attention the night
before. 1t was her note. And he
laughed as he burned it.