The Kernal, a gray-headed old war-worn vetenary, alited from his hoss, and tide the animal to the bed-post.
The Commander then mounted ontop of the wash-stand, and helpin' hisself to a chaw of tobacker out of my box, which lay aside him, the old scoundrel commenced firin' his tobacker juice in my new white hat. "See here, Kernal," said I, somewhat riled at seein' him make a spittoon of my best 'stove-pipe,' "if it's all the same to you, spose'n you eject your vile secretion out of the winder."
"Cork up, old man," said the impudent raskle, "or ile spit on ye and drown you."
All about the room the privates were sacreligously misusing my property.
One red-headed old Muskeeter, who was so full of somebody's blood he couldn't hardly waddle, was seated in the rockin'-chair, and with my specturcols on his nose, was readin' a copy of PUNCHINELLO, and laffin' as if heed bust.
Another chap had got my jack-nife, and was amusin' hisself by slashin' holes in my bloo cotton umbreller, which two other Muskeeters had shoved up, and was a settin' under, engaged in tyin' my panterloon legs into hard nots.
Another scallawag had jammed my coat part way into my butes, and was pourin' water into 'em out from the wash-pitcher, and I am sorry to say it, evry darned Muskeeter was up to some mean trick, which would put to blush, even a member of the New Jarsey legislater.
And every Muskeeter fell into line about my bedside.
"Charge bagonets!" said the Kernal. At which the hul lot went for me. Their pizened wepins entered my flesh.
They charged onto my bald head. Rammed their bayonets into my arms--my back--my side--and there wasen't a place bigger'n a cent, which they diden't fill with pizen.
But Jersey Muskeeters, not dealin' in that article, don't know what it is.
Like the new collecter MURFY, when choppin' off the heads of FENTON offis holders, mercy hain't their lay, about these times.
At this juncture a company of draggoons clinchin' their pesky bills into me, dragged me off onto the floor.
And then such a horrible laff they would give, when I would strike for them and miss hittin'.
There I lay on the floor, puffin' and blowin' like a steem ingine, while the hull army was dancin' a war dance around my prostrate figger, and the old Kernal was cuttin' down a double shuffle on the wash-stand, which made the crockery rattle.