Martin came to the stage from his section, his own violin in hand. All along the wooden benches before it sat a profusion of soldiery, a collection of barbers in attendance, busily employed in replaiting and powdering their hair ready for a military review scheduled for this afternoon. ‘Nothing of the sort,’ argued Gerald. He took some Oreos from the bottomless supply that stocked the cookie jar. He had a peculiar way of stepping in, in a parry; knew his arm, and its just time of moving; put a firm faith in that, and never let his opponent escape. ‘Pray you, do me this one little service, and do not ask me why. Wished to see you.
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