"
Colonel Dujardin slipped into his quarters; off with his half-dress
jacket and his dirty boots, and presently out he came full fig,
glittering brighter than the other, with one French and two foreign
orders shining on his breast, mounted the aide-de-camp's horse, and away
full pelt.
Admitted, after some delay, into the generalissimo's tent, Dujardin
found the old gentleman surrounded by his staff and wroth: nor was the
danger to which he had been exposed his sole cause of ire.
The shot had burst through his canvas, struck a table on which was a
large inkstand, and had squirted the whole contents over the despatches
he was writing for Paris.
Now this old gentleman prided himself upon the neatness of his
despatches: a blot on his paper darkened his soul.
Colonel Dujardin expressed his profound regret. The commander, however,
continued to remonstrate. "I have a great deal of writing to do,"
said he, "as you must be aware; and, when I am writing, I expect to be
quiet."
Colonel Dujardin assented respectfully to the justice of this. He then
explained at full length why he could not bring a gun in the battery to
silence "Long Tom," and quietly asked to be permitted to run a gun out
of the trenches, and take a shot at the offender.
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