"What is that?" cried Sergeant La Croix. "What do you laugh at, Private
Cadel?" said he sternly, for, though he was too far in the trench to
see, he had heard that horrible sound a soldier knows from every other,
the "thud" of a round shot striking man or horse.
"Sergeant," said Cadel, respectfully, "I laugh to see Private Dard, that
got the wind of the shot, dance and sing, when the man that got the shot
itself does not say a word."
"The wind of the shot, you rascal!" roared Private Dard: "look here!"
and he showed the blood running down his face.
The shot had actually driven a splinter of bone out of the sutler into
Dard's temple.
"I am the unluckiest fellow in the army," remonstrated Dard: and he
stamped in a circle.
"Seems to me you are only the second unluckiest this time," said a young
soldier with his mouth full; and, with a certain dry humor, he pointed
vaguely over his shoulder with the fork towards the corpse.
The trenches laughed and assented.
This want of sympathy and justice irritated Dard. "You cursed fools!"
cried he. "He is gone where we must all go--without any trouble.
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