Betty at Fort Blizzard | Page 5

a good wife, sir--I ain't sayin' a word about that, sir."
"I should think not," replied Colonel Fortescue, to whom the Sergeant's
married life was known intimately for nineteen years, "Mrs.
McGillicuddy keeps all the soldiers' wives satisfied and is a boon to the
regiment."
"That's so, sir," the Sergeant agreed, "and the chaplain, he compliments
her on the way she marches them eight children and me to the chapel
every Sunday, rain or shine, me havin' the right of the line, Missis
McGillicuddy herself bein' the rear guard, the line properly dressed, no
stragglers, everything done soldier-like. But Missis McGillicuddy don't
follow me around like a poodle dog, as the palmist, and the mind reader,
and the dream book said she would. She's hell-bent--excuse me sir--on
havin' her own way all the time."
Just then a vision flitted past the door. It was Anita, dressed for dinner,
in a filmy gown of pale blue and white, the colors of the Blessed
Damozel. A light came into Colonel Fortescue's eyes as they rested on
this darling of his heart. The Sergeant had a pretty daughter, Anna

Maria by name, who was just Anita's age and of whom the Sergeant
was extravagantly fond. The two fathers, the Colonel and the Sergeant,
exchanged intelligent glances. Often, in their twenty years of daily
association, they talked together about things of which they never
spoke to any other man.
"Anna Maria is a fine girl," said the Colonel.
"Yes, sir," answered the Sergeant, "if she'd just get over the fancy she
has for Briggs, the artillery corporal. That man is bound to be killed by
a wheel runnin' over him. You know, sir, if there is anything on earth
that skeers me stiff it is a horse hitched to any kind of a vehicle. I don't
mind ridin' 'em because then the horse's heels is behind me. But in a
vehicle the horse's heels is in front of me, and it makes me nervous. I
have told Anna Mariar that she shan't so much as look at Briggs unless
he exchanges into the cavalry, so the horse's heels will be behind him,
and not in front of him."
The entrance bell rang, and Kettle went to the front door. Colonel
Fortescue could neither hear nor see the visitor, but the step and the
sound of a military cloak thrown on a chair indicated the arrival of a
junior lieutenant. Colonel Fortescue looked annoyed. The junior officer
running after Anita bothered him even more than Briggs, the artillery
corporal, bothered Sergeant McGillicuddy. Anita was but a child--only
seventeen; the Colonel had proclaimed this when he brought Anita to
the post. Colonel Fortescue did all that a father and a Colonel could do
to keep the junior lieutenants away from Anita, but no method has yet
been found to keep junior officers away from pretty girls.
There were still twenty minutes before dinner, and the scoundrel, as
Colonel Fortescue classified all the juniors who, like himself, adored
Anita, seemed determined to stay until the musical gong sounded, and
later, if he were asked. This particular scoundrel, Broussard, was the
one to whom the Colonel most objected of all the slim, good-looking
scoundrels who wore shoulder straps, for Broussard had too much
money to spend, and spent it wildly, so the Colonel thought; he,
himself, had something handsome besides his pay, but he had also a
sensible father who held him down. Broussard had too many motors,

too many horses, too many dogs, too many clothes, too many fighting
chickens, and, above all, was too intimate with a certain soldier, a
gentleman-ranker who was disapproved, both of officer and man. A
gentleman-ranker is a man serving in the rank who might be an officer.
This one, Lawrence by name, was a bad lot altogether. The Colonel
could add quite a respectable number of demerits to Broussard's credit.
And to make matters worse, Broussard was a dashing fellow, the best
rider in his troop, and had a way with him that made Anita's eyes soften
and her tea-rose cheeks brighten when he came within her presence.
Meanwhile, Broussard was walking up the long and handsome
drawing-room toward the little glass room at the end, which had been
fitted up for Anita's birds, her doves and her canaries.
Anita, leaning backward in the cushioned window seat, held to her
breast a fluttering white dove. She did not see Broussard until he was
quite in the little room, and had closed the glass door after him. As
Anita gave Broussard her hand, a great wave of delicate color flooded
her face. This quickened the beating of Broussard's heart--Anita did not
blush like that for everybody. She had a gentle aloofness generally
toward men which was a baffling mystery to her mother.
Broussard,